<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Keener Revelations by Primal_Nexus</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28992477">Keener Revelations</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Primal_Nexus/pseuds/Primal_Nexus'>Primal_Nexus</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Trek: Deep Space Nine</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Accidental Baby Acquisition, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempt at Humor, Bisexual Julian Bashir, Episode: s05e16 Doctor Bashir I Presume, Except Doctor Bashir I Presume happens sometime in season 3 instead, In Cardassian Union baby adopt you, M/M, POV Julian Bashir, Slow Burn, Sterilization, co-guardians to lovers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:14:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>57,319</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28992477</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Primal_Nexus/pseuds/Primal_Nexus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Julian Bashir's genetic status has been revealed. His father is going to prison, and Julian is given a terrible ultimatum upon which his continued service hinges. During a doomed mission on a plague-ridden world, opportunity knocks.</p><p>[Updates whenever I want, apparently.]</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Julian Bashir/Elim Garak, Julian Bashir/Nurse Guerette (mentioned)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>390</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>171</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>In this canon-divergent AU, the main events of <em>Dr. Bashir, I Presume</em> take place much earlier in the chronology of the series, during the year 2371. The main plot arc of this work takes place a year later, in 2372.</p>
    </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This first chapter jumps around a lot between dates, which is why Ben Sisko is referred to as both Commander and Captain at different times. My stardate math might be kind of crap (RIP it's so hard to get right), but that's the basic gist of things going on here.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3>[Stardate 48708.7, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p><em> It doesn’t hurt</em>.</p><p>That’s what Kukulaka intimated with his familiar beady black eyes. Julian gave his teddy another squeeze. <em> Really, it doesn’t</em>.</p><p>It wasn’t enough. Julian set Kukalaka aside. He closed his eyes and started a careful internal scan, beginning at the top of his head. He dropped his tongue and parted his lips on a sigh to force the jaw into more relaxed alignment. <em> In-out</em>, the automatic encouragement stopped just short of exiting his mouth. <em> Good</em>. There was no harm in taking advantage of his own warm bedside manner. In a few minutes, he might be able to float away from his various organizing identities and let the orphaned doctor voice soothe from a distance beyond self-recognition.</p><p>Down the vertebrae he went, <em> Watch that atlantoaxial</em>, C3, C4, C5 and so on, shoulders were even, trapezii firm but not strained, armpits, core temperature seemed only slightly elevated, it was fine, he was resting, elbows neutral, wrists moved slowly with an opening rotation, fingers flexed once, very slowly, then back up a little, following the circulating rhythm to the chest, <em> In-out, perfect </em> , resting heart rate within ideal range, down and down, stomach, down and down, until Julian found it: the place that <em> would </em> hurt if anything did. Did it hurt?</p><p><em> It doesn’t hurt</em>.</p><p>It didn’t help. Not any more than the first time he’d run through the body scan meditation this night. Not any more than the <em> fourth </em> time.</p><p> </p><p> </p><h3>[Stardate 49081.4, Pentath III, Pentath System]</h3><p>Julian jabbed the landing sequence into the helm console of the <em> Rubicon</em>. It was just his luck to be back on this bucket only days after submitting his final report on that disastrous business with Goran’Agar… and Miles. <em> Fucking Miles. Fuck him. </em> At least he wouldn’t be burdened with the Chief’s presence on <em> this </em> mission.</p><p>None of <em> that </em> had gone into the report, as a matter of principle or something else entirely, Julian couldn’t be sure even now. Miles had <em> invited </em> Julian to bring him up on charges. They’d both said their piece. But there was an uncomfortable, jagged edge beyond the difference in their moral stances. Julian hadn’t reported Miles, just as he had said he wouldn’t. Had he hoped that this would stimulate Miles’ conscience? Yes, of course he had. And what might <em> that </em> have accomplished? Even <em> if </em> Miles could come around to seeing things Julian’s way <em> now</em>, it wouldn’t save lives in retrospect, would it? <em> Stupid. </em> The passing of days had made the anger Julian was carrying heavier, hotter. Every time Julian blinked, the blast of disruptor fire that had destroyed his research flashed on the backs of his eyelids. No darts this week. No darts scheduled for a future date. Maybe no darts <em> ever</em>.</p><p>The Captain didn’t know of Miles’ mutinous betrayal, and yet this mission reeked of consolation. It wasn’t like <em> Ensign </em> Kahrimanis would give Julian any trouble over issued orders. And his nurses Guerette and Kabo were as extensions of his arms in the operating theater and the lab. Three humans and a Bolian: the away team had been carefully selected to avoid exacerbating the exploded politics of a backwater Cardassian colony rebelling under faltering Klingon rule. This was no situation for a Bajoran medic, or, thankfully, Chief O'Brien.</p><p> </p><p> </p><h3>[Stardate 48706.6, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>“We were just discussing the terms of an agreement that will allow you to retain both your commission and your medical practice.” Admiral Bennett’s words and the tableau laid out before Julian when he entered the Commander’s office brought quick, but not total, understanding: Parents were huddled protectively between him and the projection of authority and judgment; Sisko’s staying hand was reaching out from the side to steady him. Julian had been prepared to tender his resignation on the spot, but this setup predicted quite a different outcome.</p><p>“I’m going to prison.” His father’s tone and shrug were bereft of remorse, but his casual disclosure belied the nervousness that portended the consequences.</p><p>“There’s more.” The Admiral directed the remark to Richard, as if Julian’s father had found himself anointed sole representative of his grown son’s interests, even with his son now in the room. It was typical and chafed, but not so much to distract from the shock at the terrible terms to which his parents had already apparently agreed. <em> Prison? What?! </em> “For every Julian Bashir who can be created, there’s a Khan Singh waiting in the wings—a superhuman, whose ambition and thirst for power have been enhanced along with their intellect. The law against genetic engineering provides a firewall against such people, and it’s my job to keep that firewall intact.” The holo-projected Admiral’s gaze tracked slowly until it found Julian’s, demanding full attention and obedience beneath the ethereal glimmer of a light-constructed form. “I take no pleasure in delivering this additional term, but in the spirit of the law, it will be necessary for you to undergo irreversible sterilization as a condition of your continued service in Starfleet. I’ve made my offer. Do you accept?”</p><p>Julian didn’t hesitate, even when his mother’s fingernails dug reflexively into the skin of his forearm on a flinch.</p><p> </p><p> </p><h3>[Stardate 49081.5, Pentath III, Pentath System]</h3><p>The comm blipped a hail as the <em> Rubicon </em> descended into the atmosphere of the small planet. Julian straightened and brought the channel onscreen.</p><p>“You are to return fire if attacked. Your landing coordinates are no longer secure.” <em> Ah. Perfect. </em></p><p>“So <em> glad </em> that you’re well, Drex,” Julian replied with a tight smile. The formidable brow that usually brought such dignity and sharpness to a Klingon face cast over the son of Martok’s deep-set eyes in a way that made him look profoundly stupid. Julian couldn’t be sure how, exactly, a warrior could look that dull, but it was as plain as the ridges on the face. “I believe I’m supposed to pass on your father’s regards.”</p><p>“P’tak! We will not defend you.” Drex cut the comm and Julian attempted to rub away the burgeoning headache that dealing with Klingons usually brought to his temples. Julian had offered the gentlest of reminders that the Federation was here with the Klingon General’s blessing, although Drex had reacted as if Julian had outright taunted him: <em> Daddy’s sent help for his precious little boy</em>.</p><p> </p><p> </p><h3>[Stardate 48708.7, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>The procedure could have been short, conducted with the aid of a simple local anesthetic, over in the blink of an eye, without the caveat of ‘irreversible.’ Irreversible for a doctor. Irreversible for a CMO. Irreversible, beyond even the talents of Dr. Bashir himself to address, should he ever have a mind to try. It complicated things. And in medicine, complication typically meant more time. Or death. Sometimes both. Julian had been out for more than six hours. He knew exactly how much longer, but he pushed the to-the-millisecond reckoning out of his head by grunting and rolling over. He bent the pillow around his neck and crushed it into the side of his head. He was sweating.</p><p><em> It doesn’t hurt</em>.</p><p>Irreversible. No going back. Not to that moment when he’d still had the choice. Not even to the moment sometime later when he’d said a rushed goodbye to his parents—his father, face bloodless, muttering, <em> I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize</em>; his mother, sobbing into her hands, barely able to speak, unable to even look at him (and who would she be <em> jaddati </em> to now?). No going back to the moment before the hypospray had sounded at Julian’s neck to put him under for the surgery. And certainly, the Julian Bashir who had once had a big secret and had kept it well was gone forever. Would it really be so hard to let him go?</p><p>
  <em> See? It doesn’t hurt. Admit it. You don’t feel a thing. </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><h3>[Stardate 49076.9, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>“There are a lot of variables in play.” Captain Benjamin Sisko rolled his desktop baseball along the fingers of one hand in a pensive rotation, a frown tugging on the corners of his mouth.</p><p>“I understand that the political situation is… delicate.” But ‘delicate,’ Julian knew, wasn’t the most honest appraisal of the situation on Pentath III. The situation was beyond volatile, had already exploded. “The sooner we depart, the better. The last thing that system needs is an outbreak of the Rudellian plague.”</p><p>“I imagine it’s close to the bottom of the list of needs for <em> any </em> system, but I agree with you. You’ll depart tomorrow. Martok will ensure that Drex knows to expect you, but I wouldn’t count on a warm welcome.”</p><p>“And the Cardassians?”</p><p>“You’ll have to hope that they won’t waste their diminishing firepower on a runabout without a Starship escort. I’ve leaked what I can to the colonists.” ‘Leaked,’ an interesting word choice. Had Garak been involved in this somehow? Julian knew better than to ask. “They’ll know you’re there on humanitarian grounds.”</p><p>“So they probably already know that the Klingons are getting sick.”</p><p>“That would go a long way in explaining the increasing ferocity of the Cardassians’ recent attacks on the Klingons,” Sisko said. He smiled, but it was grim. “It’s not going to be easy, but I trust you to keep yourself and your team safe.” The Captain replaced his baseball in its stand and stood, and so Julian stood as well. Sisko held out and handed off a padd, which Julian immediately recognized as a brief in detail. “Good luck, Doctor.”</p><p>“Thank you, Captain.”</p><p>Julian was almost out the door when he was caught mid-step by a clearly purposeful <em> afterthought</em>:</p><p>“Oh, and Doctor?” Julian turned. “Make <em> sure </em> that the Klingons on Pentath III understand that we’re there to treat them with General Martok’s blessing and encouragement.” Gowron might not care about the fate of Pentath III and its occupiers, but Martok certainly did. <em> Anything </em> to disrupt the alliances within top leadership of the Klingon Empire was being pushed these days. Julian nodded and tucked the directive away in a careful list of priorities that was already forming. The success of his broader mission, arresting the progress of a deadly plague, would depend on developing and then dispensing inoculation to the Cardassian colonists as <em> well </em> as healing the ailing Klingon occupying force, neither of which was the surest prospect.</p><p>But as usual, Dr. Julian Bashir could certainly be counted upon first and foremost to do his absolute damnedest to save as many lives as possible. </p><p> </p><p> </p><h3>[Stardate 49081.6, Pentath III, Pentath System]</h3><p>Three humans and a Bolian exited the <em> Rubicon </em> and stepped onto the surface of a grey, war-torn world, phasers set to maximum stun.</p><p> </p><p> </p><h3>[Stardate 48708.8, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>Julian Bashir no longer had a secret. And maybe the gleaming finish to his sterling reputation had been tarnished, just a little, and perhaps a morsel of the respect he had worked so hard to cultivate in his colleagues and acquaintances had been depredated. He’d lost possible futures for himself (and for unnamed and unimagined others). But he had his practice. And he had his commission. He was a man reborn without anything to hide and still with plenty left to offer. He reached down and absently cupped his balls with one hand. Soon, he would have to rise. He inhaled three times, fast and sharp, through the nose. It didn’t hurt. It didn’t hurt at all.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>In this canon-divergent AU, the main events of <em>Dr. Bashir, I Presume</em> take place much earlier in the chronology of the series, during the year 2371. The main plot arc of this work takes place a year later, in 2372.</p><p>In a bid to neatly sidestep a delicious plot hole this chapter presents, Rudellian fever is not transmissible to or by young children or infants of carrier species, and this would be common knowledge among those peoples most frequently impacted by the disease (Bajorans, humans, Cardassians).</p><p>Also, TW: This chapter features ludicrous amounts of interspecies bigotry contextualized in the crisis circumstances of an active war zone.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3>[Stardate 49082.0, Klingon Military Compound 7, Pentath III, Pentath System]</h3><p>“<em>Start</em>, damn you! Piece of—” Ensign Kahrimanis’ stream of muttered abuse was interrupted by a metallic <em>Clang!</em> as she dropped her spanner and grabbed the casing of the portable replicator, squinting to get a closer look at the dim panel. Julian bent to pick up the tool and clapped her shoulder reassuringly. “Engineering wasn’t my strong suit at the Academy,” Kahrimanis admitted with a dark chuckle, turning a smirk to her commanding officer. “I can press buttons like you wouldn’t believe and make all sorts of wonderful things happen, as long as the interface actually <em>works</em>.” Julian silently noted a sudden surge in his own cortisol levels—<em>A</em> <em>Bajoran field medic might have been an excellent choice for this assignment after all</em>—and forced a wan smile.</p><p>“Let me take a look.” He had already spotted a possible solution, but it would be better to spare the ensign proof of such a quick and easy fix. Julian still remembered his own greener days (and all their attending embarrassments). He made a mental note all the same to recommend a refresher field module to her upon their return to the station. “Why don’t you help Nurse Guerette set up for the assays?”</p><p>“Thom! You need any help over there?” Kahrimanis called across the room.</p><p>“Oh, yup!” The response was distracted, delayed. Thomas Guerette hunched over a table lit by a single precariously hung emergency lamp, and any progress he had made setting up for testing was hidden by the minute shiftings of his broad back.</p><p>Julian squatted, and after a few careful but brief maneuverings of cable, he sat back on his heels and shook his head, unable to contain a little rueful laughter himself when the replicator rewarded him with a lively chirp.</p><p>“In there!” The bark of a gruff Klingon voice startled Julian off his heels and promptly onto his bottom, but he was already mashing the small brooch-like attachment on his collar, and the shimmer of the protective forcefield bubble flew up and around his face.</p><p>“Mask up!” Julian shouted, scrambling to his feet. He traded anxious confirming glances with each member of his team as he rushed to the entrance flap of their shabby assigned ‘facilities’. Starfleet personnel could ill afford to be exposed to the very airborne pathogen they were here to treat. </p><p>Two large warriors, one male and one female, carried the barely conscious dead weight of a third, whose eyes were wild with fever. “We’re not ready to see patients quite yet,” Julian tried, but the warriors didn’t even acknowledge him, dumping their companion unceremoniously on the floor. Julian’s palm sought out his own cheek, only to be handily deflected by the forcefield, buzzing its protest. “Ohh-kay,” he grumbled. “Sure, right there on the floor will be fine. Just… perfect.”</p><p>The pair of seemingly never-tiring warriors soon returned with a second guest for the floor of the med tent, and then a third, and a fourth, and a fifth. Within the space of an hour, the dwindling space of the floor had accumulated twelve guests, all in various stages of delirium, laughing or groaning or babbling nonsense couplets in dedication to Kahless.</p><p>“Who’s in charge here?” the Klingon woman warrior bellowed, having deposited the final guest with a guttural grunt. Sweat dripped, visible through a cutout in the alloy plate covering her heaving chest. Was that merely the evidence of exertion or proof that she was already symptomatic? They would have to work fast to contain this. Julian sighed heavily and took a knee to finish taking readings on his newest patient. He made it a point to move deliberately. He wouldn’t be called to heel. “Answer me!”</p><p>Julian straightened, slowly, smoothly, expression carefully blank, and handed off his tricorder to Nurse Kabo, whose pleasantly round blue face broke into a practiced smile. He turned to the warriors and motioned tiredly to his pips.</p><p>“Drex has summoned you!” the male warrior snarled.</p><p>“Hey!” The warriors grabbed him, each by an arm, and commenced to drag him bodily toward the flap of the med tent. “We’re here to help!” Julian squawked, in what he hoped wasn’t an <em> entirely </em> undignified manner. “I’m not going to resist!”</p><p>“How much more interesting it would be for me if you <em> did</em>,” the woman warrior all but purred, which elicited a sharp cackle from her companion. Julian swallowed his retort and begrudgingly allowed himself to be tugged along.</p><p>“This is outrageous!” he spluttered as he was literally thrown into another tent, tumbling quite ass-over-tea-kettle in what he was sure <em> was </em> an entirely undignified manner. He swore quietly as he stood, pausing to brush off his knees.</p><p>“Your <em> presence </em> here is the <em> outrage</em>.”</p><p>“Drex!” The temptation presented by such a punchable face that was finally in punching range was hard to resist. Julian was a mess of compromised grace, a tangled bundle of lively and sore nerves after not one but two Klingon-precipitated tumbles in the short span of a few minutes. And he remembered treating the injuries Drex and his friends had once upon a time inflicted on Garak. This mission was already turning into one unholy pain in the ass, figuratively and literally. <em> Diplomacy</em>, the measured voice of professional decency that was getting smaller and softer by the moment nagged Julian from some distant corner of his mind. <em> Tact</em>. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with,” he gritted out, fists clenching at his sides. “This is Rudellian fever! I need to get back to my patients if I’m going to have any chance of saving them.”</p><p>“We are <em> strong</em>!” Drex gestured with a closed fist. His tent, although slightly better lit and seemingly of more reliable construction than that of the medical <em> facility</em>, was unheated by any artificial means. This planet was cold. Drex was sweating. Bad sign. “The spoonheads will succumb, and then we will re-stake our claim on this world for good!”</p><p>“That’s not how this works,” Julian said. Gently. Quietly. <em> Carefully</em>. “This disease will decimate your people before it even jumps the species barrier to the Cardassians. There are many more infected here than what there seem to be. And right now, their brains are cooking in their skulls.” Julian had a pretty good idea that the Cardassian colonists would at least be following what measures they could to limit spread if they had guessed what was striking down their less cautious enemies.</p><p>“Why did my father send you? Disease is not defeated in battle. This way offers no path to Sto’Vo’Kor.”</p><p><em> The idiot. The absolutely, stunningly, totally unthinking idiot</em>. Could a fever possibly be blamed, or was the pig-headedness of all Klingon commanders congenital?</p><p>“I don’t take orders from General Martok,” Julian responded finally, after he was sure he’d be able to modulate his tone to something that carried a note of patience and calm. <em> Don’t condescend</em>, he warned himself. “Starfleet has ordered my team here to prevent an outbreak in this system. I don’t need your help, and I’m not here to remove you. I just need you to stay out of my way and let me <em> work</em>.”</p><p>“Our scouts have located a spoonhead camp.” Drex seemed not to have heard a single word Julian had said. “We will attack in two days... with our <em> full </em> force.”</p><p>“I <em> have </em> to advise against that.” Julian forcibly straightened his fingers and took a fortifying, deep breath, holding Drex’s gaze. “I know you lost a lot of ships and equipment to take Pentath III.” <em> Not to mention all the lives already spent for this worthless rock</em>. “You’ve got no way to track all the traffic to and from the planet’s surface. Close contact with the Cardassians will spread this disease, and you have no way of guaranteeing that it will stay contained here.”</p><p>“<em> I </em> don’t take orders from <em> you</em>, and I don’t need your <em> advice</em>, Starfleet. I know how and when to do battle.”</p><p>“Then shouldn’t you be planning the next glorious victory for the Empire at your father’s side, instead of struggling to put down rebellion in some backwater dump?” Julian spread his arms, demanding attention for the depressing scarcity of their surroundings. <em> Patient </em> and <em> calm </em> hadn’t gotten him anywhere with Drex. “You’ve destroyed all the mining infrastructure on this planet that the Cardassians built. Holding the line here is choosing to draw out a petty squabble over <em> nothing </em> at the expense of many lives.”</p><p>Drex’s eyes flashed and he bared his teeth, stalking into Julian’s personal space in the low light. “If you are trying to convince me to withdraw and let go of my prize, then you know nothing of <em> honor</em>. This planet is <em> mine</em>.” His breath stank horribly.</p><p>“If you’ll excuse me, then.” Julian didn’t look down, didn’t step back, wouldn’t give an inch for this disgusting bluster. “I suppose I need to get right to work saving your warriors from disease so that you can squander their lives in the great battle for your pride.” He straightened to attention, unblinking, until he was sure that turning to leave wouldn’t be read by this fool as a retreat.</p><p>“<em>Two </em> days!” Drex called after Julian as he pushed stiffly back out through the flap and into the cold, dry wind of this dreary world. One of Julian’s previous escorts, the Klingon woman who had flirtatiously begged him for resistance only minutes ago, had collapsed and was being cradled and spoken to in uncertain, quiet tones by the other warrior. Julian reached down and grabbed the prone one by the ankles.</p><p>“Help me pick her up. Let’s go.”</p><p> </p><h3>[Stardate 49082.7, Klingon Military Compound, Pentath III, Pentath System]</h3><p>“Shall we draw gagh?” Nurse Kabo asked mildly as she pulled the weakly squirming worms out of her bowl with a borrowed, unnecessarily jagged utensil. They had brought rations to see them through, of course, but the spouse of the warrior whom Julian had helped carry to the tent had offered them food, and it would have been terrible form for all four of them to refuse. Guerrette leaned over with a chuckle and flung one of the gagh against the larger forcefield that now enclosed their eating area, where they sat, huddled together, on the floor.</p><p>“Short one stays the night?” Ensign Kahrimanis half-grimaced, half-smiled with the delight of a child touching something forbidden and icky as she squeezed an offered worm.</p><p>“I’ll stay,” Julian said, immediately lifting his hands to forestall protest. “We got a lot done today, but there’s still a lot left to do. All of you deserve the best rest you can eke out in this awful place, and unfortunately, the best on offer can be found on the bunks of the <em> Rubicon</em>. I want all of you fresh tomorrow. I can go on just fine for a few days with a kip or two.” It was easier now, to drop a needed reference to his enhancements into conversation without seeming too pompous or defensive. At least, Julian <em> hoped </em> he had gotten better about it.</p><p>He internally chastised himself for having entertained any misgivings at all about his team’s competence. Hypothetical Bajoran medics had proven superfluous to their needs. Thirteen Klingons who had once been heaped on the floor in a delirious, sweating jumble were now tidily tucked into field biobunks, the apparati for which beeped and blipped away cheerily. Kabo had worked with particular distinction, humming encouragingly along with the garbled lyrics tumbling from gasping mouths as the sick had been situated. <em> Snow Blue with her Seven Dwarfs, except there are thirteen of them and all of them are Grumpy</em>. Fluids were being introduced, optimal hydration approached, and the fever was already promising to break in two or three cases. Progress was beautiful, especially when it was honestly won through dogged dedication.</p><p>The team finished their rations in tired, companionable silence, and Kabo picked at the gagh. When it was time to retire, only Guerette lingered, re-checking the vitals of one of their patients as Kahrimanis and Kabo moved to exit the tent. Julian peeked over Guerette’s shoulder to find that the readings on the tricorder were unsurprising and matched those of the biobed. Guerette straightened with a tiny cough, then gave an almost apologetic shrug.</p><p>“Sure you don’t want some company? Tent’s pretty cold.” Guerette whispered. Julian grinned wolfishly, tapped Guerrette’s invisible face guard, and shook his head.</p><p>“Good<em> night</em>, Thom.” It had happened twice before in recent months, on the station, after a few drinks, and the encounters had certainly been pleasant enough (Thom was a gentle giant, all understated strength beneath a lovely squishy layer, packaged in the careful, exacting tactile grace of a healthcare professional), but they were on a mission here, and Julian ran a tight ship. </p><p>“Goodnight, Doctor Bashir.” There would be no Thom-foolery tonight.</p><p> </p><h3>[Stardate 49083.1, Klingon Military Compound, Pentath III, Pentath System]</h3><p>It wasn’t the singing that wrenched Julian from the tentative grasp of a light doze, but rather the lengthy, textured belch that had interrupted the tune.</p><p>“<em>'e’ pa' jaj law' moch jaj puuuuuuuuuuuuuS! </em> ” Another pause for another eructation just outside the tent, thunderous and polysyllabic, an earthquake embodied. Julian turned over in his improvised bunk and flung the safety blanket over his head with an annoyed huff. It crackled briefly against the forcefield still filtering the air he breathed. “<em>jaj qeylIS mola— </em>”</p><p>Silence.</p><p>Julian waited. <em> One. Two. Three. Four. </em> He lowered a corner of the blanket, just a little, slowly and carefully, exposing just one eye, which he trained on the entrance of the tent. Neither singing nor belching had started up again. Perhaps the bard had found a convenient bed on the ground in the open air? Well, that would hardly do. The fellow could be sick, not just extremely drunk. And if it was something <em> else</em>… Julian raised up a little on his elbows to take in the rhythmic flashing of all their equipment. Meddling Miles O’Brien wasn’t around to muck up all his progress, but someone else very well might be.</p><p>Julian squirmed into a sitting position, wriggling up against the supporting corner of the tent. Zeroing in on the gently flapping entrance that was moving with the chilly breeze of the night air, he inched his fingers down his side toward his phaser until he brushed the holster. He would only need a moment to verify the setting. He glanced down and started to draw the weapon.</p><p>“Here’s how this is going to go.” The voice was close. <em> Too </em> close. The side of Julian’s face shield buzzed the proximal warning of imminent contact. He flicked his gaze to the right, and then on a double-take found himself staring down the barrel of a <em> very </em> formidable Cardassian disruptor. Military issue. If anything, the forcefield around his head would make a close range blast all the more effective, a fireball loosed within the field to engulf his face for less-than-instant yet assured, incredibly painful death. “You’re going to stand up, slowly. And then you’re going to help me solve a problem. Is that agreeable to you?”</p><p>“Does it matter if it is?” The quip was out of his mouth before he could think better of it. It wasn’t exactly the appropriate moment to fall into the practiced cadence of Cardassian-style debate, but all those lunches with Garak had left their mark. “Oof!” The girl (young woman? It was hard to tell from the voice and in the dark) who had gotten the jump on him practically fell into his lap. She was young, but maybe not as young as first believed: thin, light, even with her full weight on him. Malnourished. Julian took in the too-big eyes, the brittle, protruding ridges of her narrow face above the improvised fabric covering that hid her mouth and nose. <em> Starving</em>. </p><p>Julian felt the press of that impressive disruptor on his delicate parts.</p><p>“I’ve heard a rumor that human male equipment tends to be pretty vulnerable and exposed. If I get a little cooperation, maybe I won’t have to blow your future children away.”</p><p>It certainly <em> wasn’t </em> the appropriate moment to offer any correction about his infertility <em> or </em> the implication of the word <em> blow </em> when addressed to his genitals. A few moments ago, no prospect had seemed more horrifying to Julian than that of receiving a single fatal disruptor blast to the head. But <em> this</em>, well, his captor certainly knew how to up the ante in the horrifying prospects department. Julian cursed on a sharp intake of breath when the girl pressed down, <em> hard</em>.</p><p>“Right!” he hissed. “I’ll cooperate.” He blinked and gulped air when the pressure of the disruptor was removed, and the girl’s weight along with it. She tugged his phaser loose and trained both weapons on him with otherwise emotionless confidence as she stepped back to allow him room to stand, which he did, slowly, carefully, as instructed. The floor was unforgiving ice to the soles of his bare feet. “Would you…” Julian gave a helpless little wave, “...<em> please </em> stop pointing those at me? I’m a doctor. I’m not going to hurt you.”</p><p>“I know why you’re here,” the girl answered. She did not comply with his request, jostling the phaser in her left hand to get a better grip. “You didn’t exactly come in on a Starship, torpedo banks ablaze. Besides, we’ve gathered intelligence on your purpose. I <em>know</em> you’re a doctor. And I know you’re here for <em> them</em>.” She gave a tip of her head toward the feverish Klingons, all thirteen of whom were sleeping the blessed, drugged, deep sleep of the innocent. <em> Just when it would be handy to have one of you louts by my side ready for a fight, too</em>. “While I understand that you’re quite busy making our enemies whole, perhaps you can spare some time to address <em> my </em> predicament.”</p><p>“I’ll do what I can,” Julian promised. He had rations he could give her, of course, and the first round of inoculations for the Cardassians had already been synthesized, if not tested with the absolute thoroughness he would have preferred. He could send some of them with her too. “What do you need?”</p><p>The girl took a shuddering breath, flaring the folds of her mask inward, the first sign Julian had seen of any nervousness. The mask billowed back out as she exhaled.</p><p>“I’m going to put these down.”</p><p>“<em>Thank </em> you!” Julian raised his hands appeasingly as the girl lowered both weapons to the ground. He held his breath and willed every muscle in his body to remain still as he watched her shrug out of the straps of a backpack and pull it around to her front. <em> Of course, she’ll need something to carry supplies </em>. The girl turned her attention to loosening the top flap of the bag, gingerly pulling it open. Julian couldn’t help but to stretch on his toes just a little bit, trying to get a better look at what might already be inside.</p><p>“<em>Ihhh. Iiihhh-yuhh</em>,” whined the bag. <em> Oh, god, I hope it’s not a pet of some kind. </em> The priorities of the young and the brave in conflict zones could sometimes tend toward the wild and random.</p><p>“Shhh,” the girl hushed. She raised her eyes to meet Julian’s gaze, silently imparting her quickly mounting distress.</p><p>“<em>Iiiihhhh. Iiiiiiihh! EEEEEEEEEEEEE—</em>” The girl slapped the top flap back down to muffle the noise and threw herself forward, shoving the bag into Julian’s arms.</p><p>“Hold him! Shut him up!” she whispered, and then she dove to retrieve her disruptor, completing a roll to her knee directly in front of the entrance of the tent. She scanned this way and that, neck ridges heaving with her desperate breaths. Julian stepped into the light of the emergency lamp and yanked the flap of the bag back again. His stomach leapt into his throat when he was greeted by a shock of straight black hair, which turned up to reveal a scrunched face, the size of a clementine, adorned with the gentle suggestions of aural and ocular ridges and a <em> very </em> recognizable forehead indentation. Tiny eyes opened to take in the light.</p><p>“<em>WAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH</em>!” Too bright! Too bright! The pupils constricted to furious pinpoints in the baby’s milky irises.</p><p>“Fuck. <em> Fuck</em>!” Julian fumbled for the lamp’s manual switch with his right hand while balancing the bag that was full, impossibly, of screaming Cardassian baby, in his other arm.</p><p>“Shut him <em> up</em>!” the girl cried desperately from the tent flap, still jabbing here and there with her weapon. Julian switched off the lamp.</p><p>“Okay, okay, here now. Ohhhh-kay. Come on, now.” He blindly gentled the tightly swaddled infant out of the bag and into his arms. Should he bounce it? Rock it? <em> So </em> tiny. Heartbreakingly small. But loud, <em> oh</em>, so dreadfully <em> loud</em>.</p><p>“<em>AHHHH!--AHHHHHHH--WUHH-WUHH!” </em></p><p>Julian jabbed a thumb into the baby’s mouth, which brought the desired silence. The silence lasted exactly 3.47 seconds, long enough for Julian’s enhanced night vision to adjust to the loss of the lamp’s light, before the little eyes that had widened in surprise at the maneuver narrowed again in displeasure.</p><p>“Ah! Ow!” Julian jolted his hand back, staring at the deep, already bleeding indentations on his thumb in panicked disbelief. <em> Teeth! They’re BORN with TEETH?! </em></p><p>“<em>Iiiiiih-yuhhh…</em>” The little motor was already revving again, and Julian had to find some way to forestall the seemingly inevitable roar that was sure to follow. He loosened the swaddle, giving the belly an experimental rub. When that had little effect, he dropped a trembling hand, mindful of his abused thumb, to caress the baleful little face. “ <em> Iiiiihhhhh… </em> ” Quite by accident, the pad of his pinky grazed the shallow dip in the baby’s forehead. “<em>Iiihh—” </em> The baby stiffened and blinked in his arms, took two gasps for breath, and then emitted a noise that sounded suspiciously like a fart. The tiny face went slack with relief.</p><p>Julian rubbed the little indentation in gentle circles with his pinky, and the baby actually <em> smiled </em> (strange but beautiful with those very itty-bitty, fully formed rows of teeth) and reached up out of the loosened blanket to grasp at Julian’s hand with an encouraging coo.</p><p>“Thank the <em> State</em>. That was a close one.” The girl backed over to Julian, still pointing her disruptor toward the entrance of the tent.</p><p>“What <em> is this</em>?” Julian was about as incredulous as he could get, which was <em> significantly </em> incredulous. The baby chirruped happily.</p><p>“Well, first of all, <em> what </em> is a <em> who</em>, and <em> who </em> is probably a <em> he</em>, so far as I understand. He is <em> Cardassian</em>, clearly.”</p><p>“Is he <em> yours</em>?”</p><p>“<em>No! </em> ” the girl squawked. She lowered her weapon with a jerk and narrowed her eyes at Julian. Her pouty indignation made him revise his idea of her age for the third time in as many minutes. “He’s not <em> anybody </em>’s. We pulled this little one out of a steaming mess of burnt flesh that probably used to be his parents. They perished in one of the air strikes before we moved camp.”</p><p>“Oh, dear,” Julian murmured, shocked out of a more thoughtful response.</p><p>“Right now we have one replicator, and it barely works. I don’t think the supplements are doing him much good. He’s not <em> growing</em>. He’s still the size of a hatchling. That stupid machine can’t even replicate a decent bowl of stew… and when it stops working altogether, I won’t be able to feed him.” The girl cast a worried glance at the baby, and then up at Julian. <em> Yes, younger than I thought</em>. “This is a <em> mining </em> outpost. Nothing edible grows on this world. We have to replicate <em> all </em> our food or have it imported, just like on the stations. We don’t have a lot of stored food left that’s any good, and we can’t get supplies while the Klingons are shooting everything that moves out of the sky. Well, except for that glorified skimmer you rode in on, apparently.”</p><p>“It doesn’t seem very honorable to starve you out. Maybe if you—”</p><p>“We can’t call for aid.” The girl pinched at the bridge of her concealed nose to adjust her mask. “We don’t want the Klingons to intercept and understand that they have this advantage, that they might be close to… I can’t even bear to say it. Now that they’re sick… Well, we hoped we might have a chance, one <em> final </em> chance, to beat them, to make them go away.”</p><p>“Why not just <em> leave</em>? If there’s nothing to eat, and all the mining operations have been blown to bits…”</p><p>“No.” The fabric undulated and pulled taut over the protesting ‘o’ of the girl’s mouth. “This is <em> our </em> home. This is a Union planet. If the Klingons succeed in securing it, we’ll ruin it even more. We’ll leave them with dead sands.”</p><p>It struck Julian as an appropriately Cardassian sentiment, although Garak might have gotten it across with slightly more finesse. Just as he was about to ask what plans the girl might have for the baby (specifically, to what ends she was placing him into the care of a Federation doctor), Julian startled to the unmistakable discharge of a disruptor from mere yards beyond the tent’s entrance. The girl whipped her weapon back into position and approached the flap of the tent with measured, unhesitant strides. <em> She’s seen a lot of action</em>.</p><p>“Aasil!” she exclaimed suddenly, lowering the disruptor and clutching her chest with a relieved laugh. “You came.”</p><p>A much taller, somewhat older Cardassian male slipped into the tent, gaunt and threatening with his worn, ill-fitting armor. Was it his or had it been pulled from the corpse of a fallen comrade? The dark eyes that hovered above the scrap of fabric wrapped around the rest of his face seemed dead, flat and calculating in the darkness. </p><p>“I came to stop you.”</p><p>“But, Aasil, I—”</p><p>“You’re a <em> traitor </em>, cavorting with the enemy on the very night of our planned offensive!”</p><p>The girl seemed disparaged by that accusation, but she wasn’t moving with the practice of her training and experience. The man had a disruptor pointed directly at her, and here she was, caught in the paralysis of working out what was wrong and how to <em> fix </em> it. Julian swallowed. Aasil would have no reason to share sensitive plans for resistance if he thought that anyone within earshot of that disclosure would survive for long. There, on the floor, Julian could just make out the shape of his discarded phaser. Could he reach it? He’d have to put the baby down, dive, roll, come up ready to fire… It was dicey, but soon he’d have no choice but to risk it.</p><p>“You said you wouldn’t tell. We can’t just watch him <em> starve</em>. He can’t make the choice like we can, to fight. Aasil, come <em> on</em>, you know me. You know I’m not a traitor.”</p><p>Julian wanted to call out to the girl, give her some kind of warning, provide a mere moment of distraction, take some small amount of dread out of the air, but he didn’t even know her <em> name</em>.</p><p>“Hey!” He called, stupidly. She glanced at him, a horrifying mixture of desperate sadness, fear, and confusion clouding her eyes. And then she exploded in a flicker of maximum-intensity disruptor fire, which left nothing, not even dust, behind. The air crackled from the blast. Julian saw her eyes still, holding questions that would never be answered, superimposed against the flash.</p><p>He blinked hard and swallowed a groan. So. This was it.</p><p>“Let me put him down!” he pleaded breathlessly, holding out the baby, who was again screaming, this time for the terribly apt reason of anticipated lethal injury. No nod, no shake of the head, not even a blink: the Cardassian the girl had called out to as a friend, this Aasil, merely pivoted on his heel and took aim again. <em> Got ya! </em> Julian was struck out of nowhere with the memory of a failed drill for Founder infiltration preparation, when Odo had reached out from a pillar and grabbed him by the collar. He breathed out and shifted his gaze to the weapon. He watched the finger on the trigger, and it was twitching, and it was in position, and it would squeeze, and maybe Julian could time it. Maybe he could <em> throw </em> the baby…</p><p>“TASTE! MY! BLADE!” The Cardassian swung around just as a bat’leth slashed through the tent flap and caught him in a shoulder ridge, where it slid down, fast, and deep, into the chest, cracking the armor. Had the blade come from the side, surely the man would have been soundly decapitated. “AUUUGHHH!” A fat, aged Klingon barrelled fully into the tent. He grasped the handle of his weapon with both hands and shoved a foot to the Cardassian’s torso, wrestling the bat’leth free and intensifying the gore of the initial strike. Dark blood gushed and gurgled from the horrifying wound as Aasil finally collapsed. “GLORY TO THE EMPIRE!” the Klingon shrieked, pointing his dripping weapon at Julian.</p><p>“Ah-ahhhh! G-glory to the Empire!” Julian stuttered back. </p><p>“<em>Baaaaaaap</em>!” the baby in his arms supplied helpfully.</p><p>The chaos of the skirmish engulfed the compound. Clamoring blades and disruptors discharging in hot, staccato bursts grew louder and closer by the second. The Klingon warrior disappeared back out into the fray as quickly as he’d appeared in the tent. Julian shifted the baby again, picked up a tricorder in his free hand, and ran to kneel at Aasil’s side, but the already dull eyes were unfocusing, draining in that horrible unstoppable way that was beyond the reach of even the most talented, quick-thinking doctor.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Julian managed, just as he felt the tingle of an initiated emergency beam-out. The tent blinked out of existence and was replaced with the interior of the <em> Rubicon</em>.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I found out about the apparent totally cursed Cardassian market for Bolian skin this past weekend. Big sad face for what this does for the plausibility of a Bolian nurse being sent into a Cardassian war zone, among other things. Curse you, Memory Alpha. Darn you to HECK.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>In this canon-divergent AU, the main events of <em>Dr. Bashir, I Presume</em> take place much earlier in the chronology of the series, during the year 2371. The main plot arc of this work takes place a year later, in 2372.</p><p>I totally didn’t obsessively listen to the soundtrack for the Mandalorian on repeat while I was drafting this chapter. Just kidding. I totally did.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3>[Stardate 49083.2, USS <em>Rubicon</em>, Pentath III, Pentath System]</h3><p>Julian deactivated his face shield and spilled the baby into Kabo’s arms as the <em> Rubicon </em> began a shuddering liftoff from the surface of the planet.</p><p>“Ensign, get us out of here!” he ordered Kahrimanis belatedly. The <em> Rubicon </em> turned as it crested the spindly leafless canopy of a group of dead trees, among which it had previously been parked and hidden. Julian pulled himself against the force of the atmospheric boosters by seatbacks and contours of panels to his chair at the front of the craft. Nurse Kabo yelped suddenly. “Watch out!” Julian called out to her without sparing a glance aft as he checked their plotted course and took control of the helm. “He bites!”</p><p>“They’ve got a nasty anti-air cannon in the compound. It’s coming online!” Kahrimanis shouted.</p><p>“I see it,” Julian confirmed. “Initiating evasive sequence Alpha-2. Watch our drag, we’re going up <em> fast </em>—and get Drex on that comm!”</p><p>“Aye!” Kahrimanis’ fingers flew over adjacent consoles in a feverish flurry reminiscent of a concert pianist’s crescendo. She hadn’t, as it turned out, been exaggerating in the slightest about her talent for button pressing. Julian pitched the <em> Rubicon </em> ludicrously upward into the steepest angle of ascent recommended, and then well beyond that. “They’re locked on to us!”</p><p>“Cowards!” Drex’s greasy face filled the viewscreen. His pupils had dilated to psychotic dinner plates. Clearly the fever was wreaking havoc on his already limited capacity for deductive reasoning. “I will <em> destroy </em> you!”</p><p>“Firing on this vessel is an act of war!” Julian roared back. “Stand down immediately!”</p><p>“The ambush you planned with the spoonheads has <em> failed</em>! And now you will pay in <em> blood </em> for your duplicity!”</p><p>Julian terminated the communication with a smash of his hand just as the clouds began to thin around the runabout. “Start transmitting our distress call as soon as we clear the atmosphere.”</p><p>“Aye!” </p><p><em> If </em> they cleared the atmosphere. All things (even the augmented things) considered, Julian could only be called a mediocre pilot at <em> best</em>. A destructive beam of astonishing girth flashed over the bow, a miss from the ground, barely.</p><p>“I’m going to take us to warp as soon as I can,” Julian assured everyone, including himself. He could do this. He <em> had </em> to.</p><p>“<em>BEEEEYEEEEEEEYEEEEEE</em>!” the baby warbled doubtfully from the rear of the craft. Julian glanced back only to have his attention pulled, literally, in another direction as Kahrimanis’ fingers clamped over his shoulder and jerked him around to face forward again. There, directly off the starboard bow and just beyond the planet’s atmosphere, a massive Bird-of-Prey was decloaking in a deadly beautiful shimmer.</p><p>Seated behind Kahrimanis, Thom Guerette, already pale and sweating from their wild climb, loosed a series of explicit imperatives at the Klingon warship, only a couple of which were expressions of acts he had ever privately asked Julian to perform on him. An opportune moment to fully consider the semantics of <em> sideways fucking </em> probably didn’t exist in the context of a space battle. Another beam from the surface lanced so close to their port quarter that Julian could swear he felt the heat of it flash on the back of his skull through the hull of the ship. A wall-mounted console exploded in a shower of sparks, and the runabout’s movement was suddenly arrested.</p><p>“They’re pulling us in.” <em> At least they’re not firing. Yet. </em> “They’re hailing us.” Kahrimanis’ right index finger hovered over the comm indicator.</p><p>“Put them through,” Julian said.</p><p>“Lieutenant.” Martok’s tone was so mild, he almost sounded bored.</p><p>“<em>General </em>?” A million questions fought for the real estate of that single word, and Julian’s wide-eyed wonderment earned him a not completely unpleasant rolling chuckle from the storied Klingon warrior.</p><p>“I’ve taken the liberty of beaming your equipment and patients aboard for continued treatment on my vessel. Security and sanitation will be ensured for your comfort, of course.”</p><p>“How very kind of you,” Julian replied flatly, only slightly recovered from the initial shock. Martok snorted and the viewscreen went dark. The Bird-of-Prey loomed large and starkly gorgeous as the comparatively toy-sized <em> Rubicon </em> was drawn in a controlled drift toward it. Had Martok been monitoring the planet this <em> whole </em> time? And if so, who had really failed in their mission—Julian or Drex? Julian now saw himself and his team cast as pawns deployed in the service of a last, fatherly gambit to allow Drex the opportunity to recoup his honor, to regain control of what was, finally, a strategically useless point on a densely dotted map of Klingon-controlled formerly Cardassian territory. <em> Daddy to the rescue after all</em>. </p><p>Julian had been used. Lives had been risked and lost just so that House Martok could save face. And Captain Sisko might even have known about it, might even have <em> let it happen </em> to ingratiate himself privately to Martok, but Julian didn’t let that conjecture linger. The Cardassian colonists were going to be left to scrape such a sad existence as the bombed-out husk of their world would allow, without the inoculation for a plague that was sure to make itself known and felt shortly. Julian leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.</p><p>“Um, Doctor Bashir?”</p><p>Julian didn’t move, didn’t open his eyes. “Yes, Nurse Kabo?”</p><p>“I think this child has soiled his garments.”</p><p>“I am <em> shocked </em> that <em> I </em> didn’t soil <em> my </em> garments!” Guerette half-whispered, half-laughed. </p><p>Julian blinked his eyes open and watched the lurking shadow of the Bird-of-Prey’s cargo bay envelope the runabout. As the craft settled, he turned in his chair.</p><p>“Now that I’ve bled all over the helm, I’ll make you a deal, Nurse,” he said to Kabo, who was holding the squirming, huffy, distinctly moist infant out from her body with fully extended arms. “Patch me up,” Julian shook his injured thumb at her and gave the baby a chastising frown. <em> This is your fault</em>. “And I’ll see to our new <em> friend</em>.”</p><p>“Perish the thought that we should add to the stench of a Klingon warship,” Kahrimanis muttered.</p><p>Guerrette stood on unsteady legs, pressed the panel to open the hatch, and without a word of warning, leaned out of the runabout to vomit directly onto the floor of the Bird-of-Prey’s cargo bay.</p><p>“Oh! Okay, Thom. That’s all right. Let’s find you something to drink.” Kahrimanis wrapped a steadying arm around Guerrette’s waist and they stepped out of the <em> Rubicon </em> together.</p><p>“I suggest you breathe through your mouth, Doctor,” Kabo said as she settled the baby in Julian’s lap. She took his injured hand into her grip and began swiping over the tip of his thumb with a regenerator in smooth, practiced motions. </p><p>“<em>Not bloodwine! </em>” they heard Guerrette wail from some distance. Julian shared a quiet laugh with Kabo.</p><p>“There you are! Good as new,” Kabo assured Julian and released his hand. She stood with a little clap. “Maybe they’ll offer <em> me </em> some bloodwine. I honestly didn’t mind the gagh!” She grabbed the sides of the open hatch of the runabout and executed a playful hop out of it, presumably to avoid the puddle Guerette had left.</p><p>“Bip.” There was a squirm. “<em>Iiihh</em>…” Julian knew <em> that </em> noise. He held the baby under the arms and stood.</p><p>“Uh… onesie…” Julian tried at the <em> Rubicon </em>’s replicator.</p><p>“Define parameters.”</p><p>“Hmm. Infant length of 39.5 centimeters.” Julian gave the baby a curious heft. “Weight approximately… 2.5 kilograms? We’ll have to fatten you up right away, chum.”</p><p>“Specify garment attributes.”</p><p>“Oh! Something soft, hypoallergenic for most catalogued humanoids, nothing too clingy or textured that will catch on tiny scales. Something a little insulated, good for retaining heat.”</p><p>“Specify color and/or pattern preference.”</p><p>“Are you kidding me?” Julian rolled his eyes. “Belay that. Solid purple, I guess. I want a diaper, too. And some wipes. And, uh, a sling? To safely carry a baby, using given infant parameters and the measurements on file for me. Black. And some socks and shoes for me too, while we’re at it. Standard issue, per my measurements.”</p><p>Kahrimanis poked her head back into the cabin. “Your presence has been requested, Doctor. General Martok has <em> summoned </em> you.” She winked.</p><p>“I’ll be right out.” Julian carefully laid the baby on a seat.</p><p>“You <em> might </em> want to replicate something to protect that,” Kahrimanis suggested. </p><p>“Safety blanket.”</p><p>“Oh! Watch!” Kahrimanis dove forward, catching the infant’s immediate roll and preventing what could have been a harmful fall. Julian wheeled around from the replicator with his arms full of the ordered equipment and garments. <em> Careless! </em> He knew better than to leave a baby of any species unwatched on a ledge. “You really can’t turn your back on them.” Kahrimanis and Julian exchanged a significant look as she straightened. “Kids, I mean,” she clarified. She had somehow managed to keep the mess of the baby far from her uniform. The tiny Cardassian made a face but remained silent as he was set back on the seat. He brought a small fist to his brow in a self-soothing gesture and closed his eyes. “Do you want me to do it? I’m the oldest of six.”</p><p>“Oh, no. I <em> know how</em>. I graduated—” </p><p>“—top of your class in pediatrics at Starfleet Medical, I <em> know</em>,” Kahrimanis laughed. “Just thought I’d offer. I doubt the diaper-changing module was particularly exhaustive.”</p><p>Julian rubbed the back of his neck and eyed the baby. “We were tested on holos, just the one time, and… I’m an only child, myself,” he admitted.</p><p>“Makes sense,” Kahrimanis replied.</p><p>“How’s that?”</p><p>“Oh! I mean… it makes sense that you’re an only child, you know, being an augment and everything. If your parents had had more kids, then maybe they… You know what?” Kahrimanis squinted and shook her head. “I’m sorry, Doctor. That’s way out of line. I really need to <em> complete </em> my thoughts before I open my mouth.”</p><p>“It’s fine.” An only child. An <em> obvious </em> only child. Julian had never thought of his genetic status in that context before. It was a new rabbit hole of astonishing depth to be miserably and thoroughly explored at a more convenient time. “This might take me a few minutes. Obviously I’m a little rusty.”</p><p>“Oh, I’m sure the General can wait just a few more minutes. Can’t he? Can’t he, little one?” Kahrimanis bent and walked two fingers up the dozing baby’s chest, ending with a gentle flick to his chin. One of his little legs gave a reflexive kick. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”</p><p>“Right.” Julian knelt and got to work. The baby opened his eyes—grey, <em> light </em> grey, unusual iris color for a Cardassian so far as Julian could recall, but perhaps the irises would darken with age, like humans’? Julian was outright glared at as he extricated little limbs from the wrapped fabric and then from the worn and dirty jumper beneath. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m only trying to help.”</p><p>“Bee,” the infant responded solemnly. “Ap!” Julian could <em> swear </em> he could detect a <em> familiar </em> note of played-up standoffishness in the gibberish.</p><p>“Unfortunately, my little friend, the point can’t be debated, and I… oh… <em> oh </em> , well. Goodness. This is… just…” Unspeakably foul, gently fizzing teal <em> goop </em> of a viscosity that placed it just <em> between </em> definitively liquid and questionably solid clung to a corner of the fabric wrap, portions of the jumper, and the baby’s entire lower half. It didn’t <em> smell </em> like human excrement. Julian reached for comparisons within any olfactory experiential category of memory and found none. It was its own entirely unique and entirely awful brand. And there was so <em> much </em> of it! “I guess we’d better get on with it,” he said more to himself than to the baby.</p><p>It was a rough go for a few minutes. Julian dutifully catalogued everything he was learning about wiping down a soiled Cardassian: First, it was necessary to wipe <em> with </em> the angle of imbrication of the scales exactly; second, the toes had <em> very </em> pointy ends, which could be weaponized in an instant; third (and this only became clear after most of the mess had finally been cleared away), there were no externalia or exposed sphincters to be addressed, only a small, trickily shielded cloacal patch just where one might have otherwise expected to find the swell of a mons pubis. A memory came unbidden, the flash of bright blue eyes and the crossing of legs in the replimat, and Julian couldn’t quell the curious tickle in the back of his mind: <em> I wonder if Garak</em>… He cleared his throat to push the thought away. He was relieved to find his tiny companion seemed suddenly in a much more cooperative mood about getting dressed than the one he had displayed throughout the rest of this wretched ordeal. “There! Well, don’t you look smart?” Another smile. Bitty teeth. Very strange. “Kind of cute, I suppose,” Julian admitted.</p><p>“<em>Very </em> cute,” Kahrimanis corrected when Julian stepped out of the <em> Rubicon </em> with a contented Cardassian baby strapped to his chest. The infant was slurping and gnawing away at a nutrient cube Julian had haphazardly thrown together with the replicator’s help. The fresh onesie was already getting ruined by the baby’s slobbering enjoyment. “Just in time, too. I was starting to worry that Martok was going to hunt you down and <em> eat </em> you if you didn’t get to the bridge. And, you know what? I think Kabo’s already managed to overindulge in the bloodwine.”</p><p>“I have not!” Kabo retorted in a warm sing-song as she picked her way out of a small group of loudly loitering warriors all doing slightly inebriated knife tricks for one another’s amusement. Kabo brought a massive goblet to her mouth as she approached Julian and Kahrimanis, and when she pulled it away, she revealed lips tinted to a lurid cousin of magenta.</p><p>“I’m just going to have myself a little lie-down, if that’s all right.” Guerette tried and failed at sounding jovial as he trudged past them on his way back into the <em> Rubicon</em>, belching wetly. “<em>Cute </em> kid you’ve got there, Ju—Doctor,” he added over his shoulder.</p><p>Julian leveled a long-suffering look at Kahrimanis. “Make sure that Thom’s okay. And get some rest. And, uh, try not to let Kabo, um, add to the mess,” he instructed her tiredly. The ensign would have to be entrusted with nursing the nurses for now. What else could possibly go wrong today? “You’re with me, I guess,” he addressed the sling as he turned to head for the bridge.</p><p>“BAH!” the baby exclaimed with relish, mushing the unfinished half of the melting nutrient cube into his face.</p><p> </p>
<h3>[Stardate 49083.3, Bridge, IKS <em>Rotarran</em>, Pentath System]</h3><p>“Ah! What have we here?” General Martok stalked over to Julian and folded down the top edge of the sling with surprising initial gentleness.</p><p>“Bip-bipple-beee-beeee-beee,” the tiny Cardassian bubbled, happily effervescing the remains of his meal between his little teeth.</p><p>“Feh!” Martok spat. He recoiled from the sight of the infant as if from an odious bug and drew his d’k tahg, pointing it in an irrefutable accusation at Julian. “My son was right about you. Traitor!” </p><p>“General, if you’ll allow me to explain...” Barking his defiance into Drex’s stupid face was one thing, but Julian knew he needed to somehow land on a page in the slim volume of Martok’s good book to guarantee safe conveyance for himself, his team, and <em> this kid </em> back to DS9. </p><p>“Talk, then!” Martok allowed, waggling his blade in preemptive dismissal. </p><p>“First of all, your son is <em> de</em>lirious with fever,” Julian began, drawing out the first syllable of the word ‘delirious’ to emphasize the point. He glanced around the bridge from face to leering, unconvinced face and then turned his full attention reluctantly back to Martok, straightening with a practiced poise that his frayed nerves could only barely support. “Contrary to any fever-cooked reports, I did <em> not </em> take up arms against your people, nor did any member of my team. Our mission was strictly humanitarian, with medical aid promised to <em> both </em> sides, as I’m sure you were briefed by my Captain.”</p><p>“You will return this little wastrel to the surface at <em> once</em>,” Martok hissed, bristling. Bringing Sisko and Starfleet into this discussion had not had the intended effect of diffusing the personal offense Julian had apparently dealt the <em> entire Klingon Empire </em> by rescuing a baby. As if in response to the insult, the Cardassian infant squirmed against Julian’s chest and gave an unhappy huff.</p><p>Julian brought a hand that was only slightly trembling with the confused signals of extreme exhaustion and fear to the weight of the sling in a gesture to block his charge from view. “He’ll <em> die</em>.” Julian stared hard at Martok, imploring, but Martok’s face was still, and in fact he seemed unmoved in all ways. Julian pressed on anyway: “His parents are <em> dead</em>. His recent caretaker, no more than a child herself, is also <em> dead</em>. Compliments to your son and his warriors on a job well done.” Details were details, and regardless of who had actually pulled the trigger, Julian knew that the death he had witnessed was finally the result of hopeless resistance against a powerful occupying force, the collision of a fast-moving rock and an inflexibly hard place. Julian pointed out the viewport at the diminutive greyish globe that was Pentath III. Myriad Klingon ships now clustered in orbit around it, presumably beaming an entire infected force into quarantined care. “The <em> people </em> we’ve left on that planet are starving. They’ve been bested, yes, you can be sure of that—and soon they’ll succumb to a plague that I didn’t get my <em> promised </em> opportunity to treat. I can’t send this child back there to die of neglect, especially not now that he’s been placed into <em> my </em> care. It’s against the oath I’ve taken as a doctor and against my principles as a human being.”</p><p>“Ah! Well, perhaps we can detour and submit all the necessary documentation to have it appropriately sheltered on Prime,” Martok sneered. “Shall we return this <em> prize</em>, this fatherless <em> brat</em>, to his homeworld? Give him a real send-off?” His bridge crew jeered in response. It was odd, to note this commonality between the warring peoples, their shared and puzzling disdain for bastards and orphans. Martok stepped close to Julian again, lowering the knife a little but flashing his teeth threateningly. “That <em> thing </em> is a <em> Cardassian</em>. I can’t allow it to continue to pollute my ship with its presence.”</p><p>“Would you stain the deck of your bridge with the blood of an innocent child, General?” A remembered saying—one that Julian had only learned recently when he had first questioned the honor of Klingons—wrapped its unyielding fingers around his heart and squeezed: <em> In war, there is nothing more honorable than victory</em>. </p><p>Martok seemed at least to be thinking things through, much to Julian’s relief. But after a moment of tense silence, he lifted his d’k tahg and slowly, deliberately made an unmistakable gesture of execution with it. “That it cannot <em> change </em> what it <em> is </em> does not make it any <em> less </em> what it <em> is</em>,” Martok growled, “our <em> enemy</em>.”</p><p>A spark flared in Julian’s chest and the heat of it leapt to his head almost instantly. His mouth flew open of its own volition, completely independent of his better judgment: “By that logic, I’m sure that Worf will be pleased to hear that a Klingon <em> remains </em> a Klingon.”</p><p>“The disgraced son of Mogh has defected to the Federation!” Martok roared, pressing closer still, filling even Julian’s periphery with his ire-drawn face. The baby burbled fretfully as Martok’s shadow fell over the sling.</p><p>“As has this child! Effective immediately!” Julian held his ground but failed to fully suppress an uncertain quiver. It was not advisable to go toe-to-toe with an infamous military leader of a people with whom the Federation currently had the most tenuous of diplomatic relations. He was already picturing Captain Sisko steepling his fingers in measured disappointment, upon the heels of which followed the realization that Captain Sisko would be the <em> least </em> of his problems if he couldn’t somehow weasel his (and this baby’s) way off of Martok’s terrifying and lengthy shit list.</p><p>Martok appraised him with sudden conviction. There was a certain look that certain people got, when a final decision had been reached or a final plan formulated, from which there could be no deviation. Julian had seen this look at least once on the face of every natural leader who had impacted his life. It was the look Martok had now, stony, resolute, confident, and Julian hoped he’d have the fortitude to face a foregone conclusion that was, and perhaps had always been, out of his control. “If you claim this child for the Federation,” Martok spoke evenly, “then you must claim it as your own.”</p><p>“Fine!” Julian snapped, and he felt himself rising to the challenge as if in response to a mean forehand serve. “He’s mine, and I’ll kill you if you threaten his life again!”</p><p>When Julian found himself counting beats of silence for the second time in a short span of hours, he wondered if he’d quite overshot the mark, gone out of bounds. Martok had frozen, lips slightly parted on a retort that had never fully formed.</p><p>But then the helmsman laughed—a deep, throaty, gurgling laugh. It spread to the woman at the weapons station, and then to the scope operator, until Martok himself caught his breath enough to release a low chuckle. The little Cardassian tweedled a high mimicry of the noise, which made the Klingons laugh even harder. Martok raised an eyebrow and angled a surrendering smile at the baby.</p><p>“I suppose I can make an exception, then,” Martok said finally, “for the son of… er…”</p><p>“Bashir,” Julian replied listlessly, rubbery with relief, “Julian Bashir.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Julian Bashir, top of his class in BACKSASSIN’ at Starfleet medical… Thank y’all for your patience with all these developments. I PROMISE we finally get some Garak in the next chapter :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>In this canon-divergent AU, the main events of <em>Dr. Bashir, I Presume</em> take place much earlier in the chronology of the series, during the year 2371. The main plot arc of this work takes place a year later, in 2372.</p><p>Julian is on a continuing mission to GO THE EFF TO SLEEP. Can he get there in 4.5K words, I wonder?</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3>[Stardate 49096.5, USS <em>Rubicon</em>, on approach to Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>The station was its own special <em> something </em> to come back to. Strange, that the spiny Cardassian architecture could so brightly and beautifully sing <em> home, home, home </em> to one’s travel- and adventure-weary bones. Julian experienced the sight emotionally as the swell of triumphant fanfare, every time. It was always so <em> good </em> to come home.</p><p>Julian smiled when the comm indicator blipped and turned wordlessly to Kahrimanis, who smiled back and opened the channel.</p><p>“We’re glad to have the four of you back.” Sisko’s rich voice seemed to carry even more warmth than usual, but the effect could have easily been amplified by the relief flooding Julian’s every firing synapse at being welcomed back to his life, back to normalcy, back to his friends, back to—</p><p>“Uh, well, <em> five</em>, actually, Captain! We’ve got our stowaway <em> Son of Bashir </em> here with us as well!” Kabo laughed and held the baby up to be seen. Kahrimanis shook her head in a seeming effort to hide a grin, and Thom Guerette actually snickered. The little Cardassian lifted a fist and scowled, attempting a weak twist from Kabo’s steady hold on him. Julian met the baby’s gaze and returned the glower with a whistling intake of breath despite himself. <em> So much for normal. </em></p><p>On the viewscreen, behind the Captain in Ops, Jadzia and the Major could be seen sharing significant eye contact, the former mildly interested trending toward amused, the latter with the same obvious affront that tended to cloud her expression at a shock, especially if that shock had anything to do with Cardassians. “I see,” was all Sisko had to say in response, and only the smallest twitch of an eyebrow suggested that he was at all surprised. </p><p> </p>
<h3>[Stardate 49096.7, Infirmary, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>Julian couldn’t recall a single instance that Garak had darkened the doorway of the Infirmary of his own volition, and yet, suddenly, there he was, immaculately dressed in a richly textured dark green ensemble, not a hair out of place, with that pleasantly expectant smile on his face, as if he were visiting for a routine checkup (of <em> course</em>!), as if he had been here a dozen times before for just such an appointment (of <em> course</em>!). But that was Garak, preceded by nothing if not his own sheer audacity.</p><p>“Is there something wrong, Doctor?” Garak said by way of greeting, and it was at that moment that Julian realized that he was not only staring, but frowning, and not only frowning, but frozen in place, standing awkwardly next to his desk, the medical padd he had been consulting moments before dangling uselessly and dangerously from the automatic grip of his right hand.</p><p>“Just surprised to see you here of all places,” Julian admitted, and he recovered his padd in a secure fold against his chest. He’d leave the misdirection, and there was sure to be plenty of it, to his sometime lunch companion.</p><p>“How could I possibly stay away when an orphaned Cardassian is rumored to have come on board and, in fact, to be held for treatment in this very infirmary?”</p><p>“Rumored, eh?” Julian set down his padd and crossed his arms, leaning back until he was sitting on the edge of his desk. Wouldn’t this be rich? He’d only just arrived to DS9 one hour ago, two at <em> most</em>, with the baby in tow. <em> I swear, if he says he just picked it up while hemming— </em></p><p>“You’d be surprised what one hears while making alterations. It’s a small station, Doctor. News travels fast.” Another smile, studiously vapid.</p><p>“Oh, <em> very </em> fast, my <em> dear </em> Mister Garak!” Julian’s mouth tightened around a smile he knew must look strained if not outright unkind. He drew his free hand over his skull in exasperation and embarrassment. He didn’t want to but couldn’t help but to picture himself, and an absolutely wretched picture it had to be: hair wildly tousled and perhaps even going to mat in places; dirty, wrinkled uniform; and to top it all off, he could smell himself, rank and ripe, underneath a pungent note that suggested Klingon latrine. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t even been debriefed yet. The rumors must be flying at <em> warp </em> speed.”</p><p>“I’ve come to offer whatever assistance I can provide,” Garak responded smoothly, spreading his hands wide in that practiced conciliatory gesture, palms upturned in innocent offering. The offer to help seemed genuine enough. But then, with Garak, an offer did always seem genuine, at first. Time could reveal other machinations. </p><p>There was precious little with regard to instructive literature on the care of Cardassian infants to be found in the computer’s data stores. Even the few heavily encrypted files left by the Cardassians that Julian had managed to access had yielded nothing of value. Garak seemed an unlikely candidate for a nanny, but being Cardassian, he would certainly have to have <em> some </em> information that could be helpful. Whether or not he would be forthcoming with that information was an altogether different question.</p><p>“Well, come on, then,” Julian relented, unable to resist Garak’s placid, silent patience a moment longer. “Let’s check on him. He’s asleep.” A look couldn’t cause any harm, could it? He cocked his head to a small, dark examining room and gestured for Garak to follow him in. Julian blinked to hasten the adjustment of his eyes to the darkness, but Garak slid around him and peered into the little biobed with a gasp of astonishment.</p><p>“Very small!” he whispered absently.</p><p>“He’s not gotten quite enough to eat. I’m remedying that as quickly as I can. He’s young and otherwise healthy, so far as I’ve been able to determine. I think he’ll catch up in his development soon.”</p><p>“Male. Are you quite sure?” Garak asked, but he didn’t raise his eyes to communicate the question to Julian, still staring with rapt fascination at the tiny snoozing form in the baby-sized biobed.</p><p>“Certainty is relative, of course,” Julian admitted. “The scans I’ve taken of the, ah, internal structures bear out that hypothesis for now. I was told his parents had designated him male.”</p><p>“The parents would have known. How did they die?”</p><p>“Garak, I <em> told </em> you.” Julian tried to be gentle, couldn’t be. He was snappish to his own ears. “I still need to be debriefed.”</p><p>“Of course, of course.” Garak waved dismissively. <em> Of course</em>, <em> just trying to see what you can wring out of me, is that it? </em> “Forgive my curiosity. Does he have a name?”</p><p>“Not yet, not that I know. Although, technically, I suppose he’s now known to the Klingons and the away team as ‘Son of Bashir’.”</p><p>Garak sighed his displeasure and tutted regretfully. “A shame.” It was a shame indeed that Julian had let even <em> that </em> much slip. Garak cocked his head, then finally met Julian’s gaze again, expression set in an unreadable mask beyond its sudden sternness. “Doctor Bashir, have you <em> diapered </em> this child?”</p><p>“I mean… I… Of course, it…” <em> Come on, Bashir. Spit it out. </em> “Well, yes. Am I not supposed to?”</p><p>Ridges shot up and the corners of Garak’s mouth quirked briefly in what Julian suspected might actually be a <em> real </em> smile, a <em> true </em> reflection of amusement, that was replaced again with practiced blankness almost as soon as Julian had registered it.</p><p>“Young Cardassians are fully capable of signalling their need to eliminate and giving their caretakers ample opportunity to assist.” He flicked his gaze back to the infant, who was starting to fuss softly but hadn’t yet come around to full wakefulness. “May I?”</p><p>“You’re the expert, apparently,” Julian replied, shrugging. Garak held up an index finger, as if ensuring that Julian’s full attention would be on his demonstration. And then he brought the same finger down to the fitfully dozing infant’s mouth, and pressed, gently, with the tiniest little poke to the trembling bottom lip. The baby’s eyes flew open and he gasped and coughed on an uncontrolled swift intake of breath, and then he gnashed his teeth with a hiss.</p><p>“Ah! See? He’s in dire need of relief.”</p><p>Julian hurried forward and pulled back the scanning devices monitoring the baby. He gathered the little Cardassian into his arms. “And now what? I just plop him down in the refresher, or...?”</p><p>“Well, <em> hold </em> him over the waste extractor, yes.” Garak was already reaching around Julian’s arms and attending to the snaps on the baby’s onesie (the fourteenth Julian had begged off the <em> Rubicon</em>’s overtaxed replicator). “It won’t do to keep him in this horrible garment. There should just be a flap for easy access. Time is of the essence, in this case. And the diaper! Oh, dear.” Garak removed the empty diaper and disposed of it, and then hustled Julian to the refresher, where he held out his arms to take the baby. Julian handed the bare-assed, visibly and audibly agitated infant over without comment. “Like so…” Garak held the child aloft, parallel to the floor, directly above and facing the waste extraction unit, tiny ankles contained in the sure grip of his left hand while the flat of the palm of his right supported the wee ridged neck. Garak pulled down the baby’s bottom lip again, this time in a jerky, unyielding gesture, with the index finger of his right hand. Loosing an echoing squawk, the child eliminated a quantity of waste that made all of the necessitated diaper changes Julian had done in the previous days seem like mere drops in the ocean.</p><p>“Wow,” Julian offered, gaping, but he quickly snapped his mouth shut when the smell hit him. There was very little cleanup, a single swipe of the now-closed-off cloacal patch, a cycle of the extractor, and that, apparently, was all there was to it. “You’ve done this before.” The assertion passed Julian’s lips at almost the same moment it dawned on him as a possibility. He was suddenly right back at the Tozhat Resettlement Center on Bajor, listening to the heaviness in Garak’s refusal: <em> I’m afraid not, child</em>. Could <em> Garak </em> have <em> children </em> hidden away somewhere? On Bajor? Or back on Cardassia Prime?</p><p>“I’ve never done that in my life, actually. At least, not the assisting part,” Garak responded with an easy laugh that uprooted Julian from reverie and twisted up his tangled thoughts even more. Garak handily redid the snaps on the onesie and passed the contented infant back to Julian, gesturing for their exit from the refresher. As they stepped back into the receiving area in the infirmary, Garak even pulled off a passable wink, a uniquely Terran gesture he must have had to study to get right. <em> For what purpose? </em> Why did everything have to be such a damn riddle with Garak? “I’m afraid the dual demands of profession and pastime haven’t presented many opportunities for me to interact with Cardassian children, especially not in the way of caretaking.”</p><p>“But, then, how did you manage to—”</p><p>“Gentlemen.” Julian brought himself up short just in time to narrowly avoid falling directly into Captain Sisko’s arms.</p><p>“Ah! Captain! I’m sorry, I was just—”</p><p>“—supposed to be in my office ten minutes ago.” Sisko’s tone rumbled like a distant storm, but his face softened immediately when his attention was caught by the burbling tiny Cardassian who was now taking him in with wide, appraising eyes.</p><p>“Baw!” the infant exclaimed and stretched out an investigatory hand, which flexed in keen interest.</p><p>“Duty called, sir.” Julian gave the baby a little explanatory jiggle, holding him out a little in hesitant invitation, and Sisko’s smile was begrudging even as he eagerly reached forward.</p><p>“Time management strategies require some adjustment with a little one around,” the Captain advised, and he smiled broadly down at the baby he now cradled tenderly. For his part, the infant seemed absolutely dazzled by Sisko, buzzing and blabbering nonsensical praise as he reached for the Captain’s chin. Sisko spared Julian another considering glance. “I see you haven’t even had the time to change.” Julian could only shrug and smile helplessly. “Mister Garak, I’ll have to ask for the room, if you don’t mind.”</p><p>“Of course,” Garak replied with a polite tilt of his head. When he raised it up again, he caught Julian’s eye with a look that told him that their conversation wasn’t finished. Far from it. “Doctor,” he said, nodding again in farewell.</p><p>“I suppose it’s mere coincidence that the resident Cardassian tailor caught wind of our young guest’s arrival so quickly,” Sisko said as soon as Garak had gone out of earshot.</p><p>“So he claims,” Julian hedged. He knew better (finally) than to openly speculate on Garak’s methods and motivations, especially in the presence of the Captain. </p><p>“May I sit?” Julian gestured assent to the chair behind his desk and the Captain sat, settling the quieting infant into the crook of one arm. “The General tells me that the Klingons have withdrawn from Pentath III.”</p><p>“Roughly seventy-seven percent of the occupying force had contracted Rudellian fever,” Julian reported, leaning back against the wall. He watched the cozy baby, battling an absurd flicker of jealousy (<em>Oh, to be cradled in Ben Sisko’s capable arms...</em>) that might have made him laugh were he not so exhausted. The weight of his own eyelids had started to exceed the load-bearing capacity of the muscles of his face. “No Klingon fatalities from the disease. All recovered, or recovering with generally positive outlooks. We didn’t get the chance to make significant contact with the Cardassian colonists, unfortunately.”</p><p>“Doctor,” Sisko chuckled, arching an eyebrow and subtly indicating the little Cardassian, “I would certainly call <em> this </em> significant contact.” Julian found himself incapable of mustering even the weakest of smiles for the joke. Systems were shutting down. So <em> very </em> tired. Appropriate reactions and mannerisms were always first to go.</p><p>“It was just a girl, acting alone, not an official contact from any representative government,” Julian sighed. “And she found <em> me</em>, not the other way around.”</p><p>“The mother?” Sisko asked.</p><p>“No. No, his parents have been dead for weeks, I think. The girl was trying to care for him, but the colonists can’t survive on any of the native offerings of Pentath III, and they’ve been living in temporary encampments. One malfunctioning replicator was all that stood between that child and certain death. The Klingons were starving them out.”</p><p>“What happened to the girl?”</p><p>Julian swallowed, closed his eyes, and shook his head before tipping it back against the wall. He hoped it was enough of an answer. He drew a shuddering breath after a moment, torn between gratitude that Sisko hadn’t pressed for a more detailed explanation and doubts that continued to nag, questions that still needed answers. “Martok was waiting. The <em> Rotarran </em> was in orbit when the fighting at the compound broke out. Did you know?”</p><p>“I did have to contact him to encourage his son’s cooperation before sending you in,” Sisko reminded him gently. “It’s become clear to me that he’s received conflicting reports on the situation on Pentath III in recent weeks. With his son’s life potentially hanging in the balance, I’ll bet he decided to investigate for himself.”</p><p>Julian hoped that Drex would be punished harshly for such cavalier dishonesty and incompetence, but if the nepotism-enabled Klingon commander <em> had </em> been forthcoming earlier about his loss of control and the spread of the plague, then perhaps the better half of the Klingon navy would have shown up to blast Pentath III out of existence (sparing themselves a logistical headache and salvaging the precious blood of the Empire).</p><p>“The mission. We... I failed,” Julian said softly. He couldn’t open his eyes, not so much for the weight of his eyelids but for the fact that he couldn’t bear to see Sisko’s expression at the admission.</p><p>“Julian, I didn’t send you there because I expected you to save everyone on that planet.” It was not what he had been expecting to hear. But why <em> had </em> he expected anything else, anything worse? Julian opened his eyes finally with an effort. He must have been frowning again, because Sisko held up a staying hand. The baby was soundly sleeping in his other arm. “You got our people out when things went sideways, and you did a lot of good in the short time you were there.” He smiled again at the baby and continued in a lower voice, “The Klingon occupation of Pentath III has ended. I’m sure after some time, the colonists will be able to resume importing the necessary supplies to rebuild.” </p><p>“If they don’t all starve or die of Rudellian plague first.”</p><p>“The Cardassians are mobilizing medical relief convoys to address the crisis.” Captain Sisko’s tone was soft, kind. Julian hung his head, collapsing in on himself a little in miserably hot embarrassment at his exhibited crabbiness. Professionalism, the second thing to go (third? Well, if it was getting difficult to count to three…). The Captain cleared his throat, and Julian lifted his heavy head with a jerk. “I’m pushing to ensure that Starfleet escorts them, and I’ve already offered up the <em> Defiant </em> in service to those ends.”</p><p>“That’s… That’s a relief, sir.” And it <em> really </em>was.</p><p>Sisko stood gingerly, careful not to offer disturbance to the little Cardassian. “You look like a man who is in sore need of some good news… and, not to put too fine a point on it, a long shower.”</p><p>“I’ll try to adjust my time management strategies,” Julian muttered and held out his hands.</p><p>“For now, I remand this soul to the capable custody of our Chief Medical Officer.” The two men stood close to transfer the precious cargo. The baby grunted but didn’t open his eyes and settled again quickly against Julian’s chest. “I’ve sent Lieutenant Dax ahead to equip your quarters with a crib and some other necessities. We can discuss what happens next after you’ve gotten some rest.”</p><p>“Yes, sir.”</p><p> </p>
<h3>[Stardate 49096.8, Corridor H5-B, Level 5, Habitat Ring, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>Jadzia had been and gone by the time Julian entered and called for lights in his quarters. The baby squirmed and pushed his ridged face into Julian’s uniform, sleepily growling his wordless objection.</p><p>“Lights to twenty percent,” Julian corrected with a wince. It was enough for him to see by, and the baby instantly relaxed to full limpness again. Julian checked his console, where one message was already pulled up, blinking for his attention: <em> Glad you’re back safe! Com if you need ANYTHING. Babies are HARD. -J </em></p><p>Julian breathed out slowly and swallowed. He almost choked on a sob that billowed up from some clamped-down part of himself that finally, <em> finally </em> had opportunity and privacy to show its damage. Of course there was relief at being home at last, but there was something else, too. Something heavier, less lovely. Maybe many things. He laid the baby in the crib, pausing to smooth an errant few strands off of the little face. He anticipated the strangeness of sleeping unburdened. After so many days fitfully dozing for snatched minutes on his back in a runabout bunk with the familiar, occasionally squirmy weight strapped to his chest, his own bed might feel too large, too cold.</p><p>But a shower. Oh, the shower would be <em> fantastic</em>. Water would certainly be called for. <em> To hell with sonic pulses</em>.</p><p>It did help, a little, at first. But the foggy heaviness still lurked behind his sore eyeballs, almost a headache but not, almost like a hangover—<em>Don’t think about Miles </em> —but not. He went overboard with products in an attempt to clear his head, scrubbing and grooming meticulously, filling the stall with steam until it seemed to constrict around him, suffocating. He put an arm out blindly and leaned against the wall, pressed his forehead to the sweating, unyielding surface of it, panting. <em> Stop! Stop it! </em> he begged and demanded inside the lurching spin of his mind, and he reached down to cup himself with a nauseated groan. <em> You’re fine. It doesn’t hurt, you </em> <b> <em>know</em> </b> <em> it doesn’t hurt. You’re absolutely fine. </em></p><p>One absolutely fine Julian Bashir retched and scrabbled for the shower’s panel, shutting off the water stream. One absolutely fine Julian Bashir sank down the slippery wall and mashed his face into his pulled-up knees. One absolutely fine Julian Bashir breathed deeply and quickly through the nose and slowly out the mouth, until the steam dispersed and he was cold and drying on the floor. He hadn’t been eating at regular intervals while he transported from ship to Klingon ship treating the afflicted. That had to be it. Skipping one too many meals. That, and the lost sleep. Nothing alarming or unexpected about any of it. He was fine.</p><p>Julian pulled himself up and stepped out of the stall on wobbly legs. He toweled off with three or four desultory rubs and skipped the mirror, tugging on and loosely knotting a robe. He found the baby restless, sleeping but only lightly, little arms and legs jolting up and about, displacing the blanket that had been carefully tucked around him.</p><p>“Ah, what’s the matter <em> now</em>?” Julian murmured, and he didn’t like the desperate edge to his own voice.</p><p>“He’s cold.”</p><p>Julian did more than flinch at the sound of an unexpected voice in his quarters; he staggered, nearly leapt, wheeling on the uncertain balance of a few toes to face the intruder.</p><p>“Garak!”</p><p>The named trespasser, comfortably seated in Julian’s living area, smiled that familiar, obnoxious, wheedling little self-satisfied smile. Julian tightened the knot on his robe.</p><p>“I’ve replicated some thermal garments and some more <em> appropriate </em> attire for one at his stage.” Garak had squinted on the word ‘appropriate’ and suddenly angled his face away from Julian. He gestured to the neatly folded little pile of clothing on a nearby low table. “I would have preferred to make them myself, but, seeing as our guest won’t be staying for long…”</p><p>“Why wouldn’t he be staying?” Julian sat heavily on the end of his bed and pressed his palms against his face. He was only dimly aware that his robe had parted in a long vee down his chest, and the hem just above his knees was riding up. It hardly mattered. If his state of undress bothered Garak enough, then perhaps it would deter future late-night break-ins. Julian could barely summon the energy to hope. Would he <em> ever </em> be allowed to <em> rest</em>?</p><p>“My dear Doctor, I still do have some contacts on Prime. The child could be placed there, at a fine institution, instead of on Bajor. I need only reach out to—”</p><p>“You’re going to do no such thing,” Julian cut him off flatly, dragging his fingers down his face.</p><p>“Oh?” There was an edge there. A sharp, not very nice edge. It cut a clear challenge that Julian was completely ill-equipped to meet at the moment. But there was nothing else for it but to try.</p><p>“Didn’t you tell me that children without parents have no status in Cardassian society?” In fact, he knew that Garak had told him exactly that. Verbatim.</p><p>“Would you rob this child of the chance to <em> serve </em> Cardassia? Would you sentence him to exile from <em> birth</em>?” Answering questions with questions would get them nowhere fast, and this was a conversation that needed to, much like one absolutely fine Julian Bashir, be put to bed. Julian struggled mightily to his feet and grabbed two garments from atop the pile Garak had gifted.</p><p>“I have no intention of dumping this baby on some understaffed orphanage, <em> especially </em> considering the current turmoil in the Cardassian Union,” he said to Garak without looking at him, focusing instead on gentling the little one from his crib and carefully placing him on the bed for a quick change. “Computer, raise temperature by five degrees.”</p><p>“But, Doctor! There are <em> millions </em> of orphans sheltered within the borders of the Union. Surely you can’t save them <em> all</em>.”</p><p>“You’re absolutely right,” Julian agreed. He spoke softly and kept his expression carefully neutral as the Cardassian infant met his gaze. Such a solemn little fellow he could be when he was sleepy. “What I <em> can </em> do is save <em> one</em>. <em> This </em> one.”</p><p>Garak was mercifully silent while Julian finished re-dressing the baby. “Bee—ap! Bip,” the charming little thing chirped as Julian resettled him in the crib, tucking the blanket around him again. He <em> did </em> look quite a bit happier. Julian checked for discomfort with a gentle press to the baby’s mouth and was rewarded with a sweet sigh, no teeth. He supposed it was unsurprising, given the startling volume that had recently vacated the tiny body.</p><p>“Goodnight, chum,” Julian whispered, and he placed a hesitant kiss to an orbital ridge, the first he’d dared to give the child.</p><p>“Hoo-hooo-beee,” the baby yawned.</p><p>What a stark contrast it was, to turn and face the other Cardassian in the room. Garak’s prominent ridges shadowed his eyes, which glittered out of his face with a sharp, closed-off sort of menace in the low light, very different from the openness of the baby’s features.</p><p>“Do not misunderstand me, Doctor. Absconding with the child from a conflict zone is justifiable, but this is quickly turning into something else entirely: an abduction, which is illegal. The Cardassian authorities would have every right to extradite you to be tried for the offense. And then of course, the child would end up in the care of the State anyway.” Julian glared at him, jaw working. Garak sighed as if Julian had actually managed a particularly stinging retort, and he continued with a gentle sort of wistfulness that belied the latent threat he had just delivered: “I told you before. I <em> don’t </em> make the rules.”</p><p>“Well, I’m not playing with you, Garak. If you think you have something to gain by reporting me to the Cardassian authorities, then I can’t stop you. But you can’t convince me that you’ll be doing this child any favors. Now, if you’ll please <em> leave </em>.”</p><p>Garak held Julian’s stare, even had enough audacity left over apparently to offer a quick smile, before standing with a bow. He headed for the door, but he hesitated at the threshold when it opened. He turned his head and spoke back into the room, as if a thought had just occurred to him.</p><p>“I remember my mother.”</p><p>“What?” Julian had sunk back on his bed again, defeat and anxiety jumbling horribly with his exhaustion. It took a moment to register what Garak had said.</p><p>“I was able to instruct you on relieving our young friend earlier because I <em> remember </em> my mother assisting me in the same way when I was so young.”</p><p>“You <em> remember</em>? <em> Infancy</em>, even?” Julian leaned back on his arms in the bed and cast a worried glance over to his charge in the crib. What would the child remember? His parents? Their deaths? The rest of the carnage on Pentath III? Would he carry that with him his whole life?</p><p>“Oh yes, we <em> all </em> do.” Garak hesitated again, seemingly on the verge of saying something else, but then he waved his hand back in Julian’s direction in dismissal and stepped out into the corridor without another word. The door slid closed behind him. Julian collapsed back with a huff.</p><p>“Lights out.” He rolled and smushed the side of his face deep into the minimal give of a pillow. “Thanks for the outfits. Very thoughtful,” he grumbled around a yawn to the darkness.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Ah, yes. The mechanics of alienbabypoop.exe juxtaposed against some nice, crunchy angst. Yummy, right? Anyway, y’all made it through another riveting chapter… SLEEP TIGHT, JULIAN!</p><p>Is this kinda-but-not-really-purloined baby Garak’s ticket out of exile? How will Julian’s life on the station be impacted by his sudden DILF status? TUNE IN NEXT WEEK FOR ANOTHER INSTALLMENT OF CONTINUING ACCIDENTAL BABY ACQUISITION SHENANIGANS.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>In this canon-divergent AU, the main events of <em>Dr. Bashir, I Presume</em> take place much earlier in the chronology of the series, during the year 2371. The main plot arc of this work takes place a year later, in 2372. This chapter takes place a few days after the events of <em>Rejoined</em>.</p><p>I’ve made an assumption about Universal Translator technology in this chapter, which is that, while it may operate through combadges and certain civilian public areas of the station that are “wired” for translation (Replimat, vendor stations, classrooms, restaurants, the promenade in general, etc.), it cannot extend to those who have not yet become fluent (loosely, functionally fluent) in any language. There have been a lot of discussions about how this technology would CERTAINLY mess up language acquisition for all SORTS of children, but I’m, you know, stepping out of that discourse very purposefully and using the UT narratively how I believe it was originally intended -- as a lazy pacing bandaid. So I shall be flagrantly ignoring it unless it’s useful for two characters to understand one another in any given circumstance. I humbly beg your continued understanding as I persist in stubbornly kicking world-building obstacles down the road in favor of mindlessly indulging cute bb stuff.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3>[Stardate 49210.5, <em>Quark’s</em>, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>“Hey.” Julian rounded the small table and sat without invitation. “You’re here again.”</p><p>“<em>You’re </em> here again.”</p><p>“I saw you from the promenade. And I saw you last night, here, alone, at this same table, when I was playing Tongo.”</p><p>“<em>Losing </em> at Tongo.”</p><p>“Noticed that, did you? You could’ve <em> joined </em> me, you know. Shown me how it’s <em> really </em> done.”</p><p>“Honestly, Julian, an augment <em> losing </em> at Tongo? Where’s that famous perfect memory?”</p><p>“It’s not perfect.” Julian yanked himself back from the bait (or was it repellant?) with a conversational tactic he’d recently learned, which could be grossly simplified as, <em>When you don’t want to answer a question, ask another question</em>. “What are you doing here, anyway? Oh! Hey, <em> relax </em> there, chum.” Julian lifted the squirming Cardassian out of the carrier and folded the baby into a supported sitting position on his thigh, which he shifted a little but didn’t quite bounce.</p><p>“What do you <em> think </em> I’m doing here?” <em> Touché. </em></p><p>“Well, I mean, it looks like you’re waiting.”</p><p>“Hmm. <em> Pretending </em> to wait.”</p><p>“For what?”</p><p>“For <em> whom</em>. For her.”</p><p>“Ah.”</p><p>“I know she’s not coming back.” A sad sigh, but it was controlled, brief, a whispered acceptance. “It’s nice, somehow, to sit here, to pretend like it’s all arranged, like we have plans, that she’s on her way, that she’ll show up any moment. I feel better at this table drinking alone than I do at any other point of the day. I didn’t realize that I could be this good at pretending.”</p><p>“Oh...” Julian started to lean forward, to reach out, but he flexed back in his chair when he encountered the resistance of the weight in his lap. He gave the baby a squeeze and offered Jadzia an apologetic smile.</p><p>“Don’t feel sorry for me. I had time with Nilani, even though it was cut short. Besides, Torias was a thrill-seeker. He was foolish, he took too many risks.” Jadzia’s lips were pale from the pressure of her thin smile. Julian was uneasy at such confusion on her face, confusion of a depth and complexity that he couldn’t even fathom. Seeming to note his discomfort, Jadzia arched an eyebrow and let go of a second, longer sigh. “It was inevitable, what happened. But I don’t know if I can forgive Torias for it. I know Curzon couldn’t. Some mistakes just can’t be corrected. We can’t <em> unlearn </em> lessons or un-face consequences. It was selfish of me to expect Lenara to play that out all over again.”</p><p>“Oh, I think you’re being too hard on yourself.” Julian accompanied the reassurance he had been aching to give with his most professional, most serious frown, but he was forced to give up the pretense when Jadzia glared at him. “I mean, I suppose… Well, I don’t know <em> what </em> to think! I have no idea what you’re feeling. I have no point of reference.” It all seemed <em> so </em> complicated!</p><p>“You’ve never been in love.”</p><p>Not a question, but bait all the same. This time Julian couldn’t resist. “It’s not—<em>No </em> , it’s not that. I’ve <em> definitely</em>… Well, it’s just that I’ve never…” He scoffed and shook his head. “I’ve never wanted to go back to a life I had <em> before</em>. A life I left behind. Figuratively speaking, in my case, of course.” Julian knew himself to be every bit the eyes-forward type, by necessity, perhaps even literally by design. “I don’t think it’s selfish of you to want that, but I just… I won’t pretend that I know what to do or say to make you feel any better. Of course I <em> want </em> to, but...”</p><p>“That’s surprising. You’re the only one on this station who I would say is better at pretending than even I’ve become. Garak excluded, of course.”</p><p>“<em>Hey</em>!” It stung, deeply.</p><p>“<em>Beeee</em>-yap!” The little Cardassian’s imitation of Julian’s affront wrung a startled chuckle from both adults at the table.</p><p>“You, are, <em> right</em>.” Jadzia leaned in and punctuated her admission with gentle pokes to the shallow spoon-like indentation on the baby’s forehead, which made him giggle. She moved her hand to squeeze Julian’s arm briefly, fondly. “I’m sorry. That was rude. I’m not myself. I’m trying to get back to that person I was before she came back into my life. I like my life here, <em> this </em> life. It’s just that even the way forward feels like a step back right now. It’s… disorienting.”</p><p>Julian chuckled softly. “Well, I can definitely relate to feeling <em> disoriented</em>, at least<em>.</em>”</p><p>“Beeeeeb,” the baby cooed and sparkled a toothy smile at Jadzia. She smiled back, and it seemed to come easily despite the weight of misery that sloped her shoulders in an uncharacteristic sag. Julian handed the little Cardassian over to her without prompting. Where sentiment had previously failed him, now at least he had a pleasant distraction to offer.</p><p>“He’s gotten so <em> big</em>,” Jadzia marveled.</p><p>“Bee?”</p><p>“Yes, big. You’ve gotten <em> big</em>, you sweet thing.” She raised curious eyes to Julian’s. “Lots of bilabial sounds, huh? I don’t know anything about how Cardassians learn to talk, but you’d expect a fricative or two once in a while with all these <em> teeth</em>.” That moment, that fleeting moment of heartbreak and longing and true openness and connection had passed. Jadzia had made the decision to close her selves off, and Julian shrugged in acceptance. He could do small talk if that’s what she wanted to do.</p><p>“Oh, we’re not really <em> working </em> on language quite yet. We talk. I talk with him like I talk with anyone else.” Julian flushed hot. He couldn’t quite discern the catalyst for his own sudden embarrassment. Of course Jadzia was just showing polite interest and not making any judgments on his skills as a… guardian. The baby was busy leaving his slobbery mark on Jadzia’s collar while a tiny hand strayed up the side of her face over her distinctive Trill markings.</p><p>“It’s going to be Standard for him, though? Eventually?”</p><p>He hadn’t managed to think that far ahead. Or at least, that’s what he was telling himself now, that he just hadn’t <em> quite </em> gotten there. “It’s what I speak, so I suppose that’s what he’ll likely pick up first. I only know a couple phrases in Kardasi, and I’m sure my accent would remain <em> completely intolerable </em> ”—Garak’s words, once upon a time—“even if I bothered to learn more.” Julian leaned forward and rested his chin on his hand, deflated. He hadn’t even <em> thought </em> of this. What kind of a guardian was he?</p><p>“Hmm.” Jadzia angled her head and kissed exploratory little fingers absently. The baby flexed them, making soft, approving noises. “So chatty!”</p><p>Julian managed a smile. “Well, he <em> is </em> Cardassian.”</p><p>“Yes, he is.” She gave the baby’s face a searching look and then turned her attention back to Julian. “Maybe he’d benefit from some time with Garak? I don’t think I’ve seen the two of you bickering in the Replimat since this little one arrived.”</p><p>“I haven’t been sharing any lunches with Garak lately,” Julian admitted. He suddenly missed the steadying warmth of his tiny companion, and he straightened in his chair and held out his arms. Jadzia placed a farewell kiss on the baby’s cheek before surrendering him. “I’ve been avoiding him, actually.” </p><p>“But <em> why</em>?” Oh, she was certainly interested now, completely distracted for the moment from her own cares, eyes twinkling. <em> Trust Jadzia Dax to respond immediately to a nice, big, healthy dose of station gossip</em>.</p><p>“He broke into my quarters,” Julian murmured, nearly in a whisper, directly to the baby’s scalp, who was now re-nestled securely and happily in the reinforced carrier against Julian’s torso, facing inward. </p><p>“<em>Again</em>?” Jadzia sounded de<em>lighted</em>, not in the least bit scandalized or concerned. This would be all over Ops by the morning, Julian was sure of it. His own nurses would be jabbing his ribs about it within the week. As tiresome as this sort of game could get for Julian, he intended to draw things out so that Jadzia could get the maximal enjoyment from tugging every juicy morsel of not-in-any-way-shape-or-form her business from him, nice and slow.</p><p>“Yes, again. He, ah, kind of threatened me.”</p><p>“<em>Really</em>!” Exclamation of relish, not question. “What did he threaten to do?” Jadzia was leaning in conspiratorially now, her entire body rigid, waiting to pounce and gobble up the <em> next </em> little breadcrumb.</p><p>“He didn’t say he was going to <em> hurt </em> me or anything. But he <em> did </em> insinuate that he might report me. For, um…” Julian petted back the baby’s wispy dark hair.</p><p>“<em>When</em>?”</p><p>“The first night I was back, right after you, you know, with the cradle and blankets. Thank you, by the way. I’m not sure if I thanked you.”</p><p>Jadzia was already waving away his gratitude, intent on digging deeper. “Well, it’s been two months, now—”</p><p>“Barely a month and a half!” Julian interjected. “I was only just assigned larger quarters last week!”</p><p>“Well, fine. But, if Garak was going to parlay some mutually beneficial arrangement with the Cardassian authorities involving your baby, don’t you think <em>something</em> would have happened by now?” <em>Your baby</em>. Julian looked down. <em>My</em> <em>baby?</em>  To conclude that the phrase had knifed through him wouldn’t have been adequate as an assessment. Julian’s guts churned as if his intestines had been uncoiled, laid out on the table, and split open right there. <em>Taste! My! Blade!  </em>Julian recalled. The baby hiccupped. </p><p>“Ah, Doctor! And <em> guest</em>! Does the lobeling have a name yet?” Quark hovered over their table with his automatically deployed service smile—always a little more eager than Garak’s, it seemed to Julian. A little too openly predatory.</p><p>“Not yet,” Julian said, which he followed quickly with: “Can I have a synthale, please?” Quark tutted him with a slow shake of his bulbous head as Julian blinked away lightheadedness.</p><p>“Why, he could have all the latinum in the quadrant, and it would <em> all </em> amount to nothing without a <em> name </em> to file it under. If you’re in need of suggestions, I could start a pool.”</p><p>“Pib!” the baby squeaked from his carrier.</p><p>“It’s a decent start!” the Ferengi laughed. “I was thinking something more along the lines of <em> Brak</em>, myself. And another for you?” He leaned over the table for Jadzia’s empty glass, and she nodded appreciatively at him. “<em>Brak</em>, Doctor. Good, strong name. Sounds <em> rich</em>, doesn’t it?”</p><p>“Thank you, Quark. I’ll take it under advisement.” Julian, pulse controlled back down to some rate just <em> below </em> racing, was caught between flickering annoyance at all the nosiness babies seemed to bring out in people and the embarrassment of having been called out for the second time this evening on his dubious priorities as a guardian. Perhaps the feelings were one and the same.</p><p>“Quark’s right, you know,” Jadzia added, after the Ferengi had returned to the bar to fetch their drinks. Her eyes danced, but her smile was muted. Obviously she knew she was flicking at a sore spot. Obviously it wasn’t detracting from her enjoyment, though. <em> Serves me right for encouraging this. </em></p><p>“What, <em> Brak</em>? <em> Really</em>?”</p><p>“Well maybe not <em> Brak</em>, but <em> something</em>. You weren’t planning on calling him ‘chum’ forever, were you?”</p><p>“No! I just haven’t…”</p><p>“You’re scared.” It was said without judgment, but also without a shred of doubt. A statement of fact.</p><p>“Just <em> busy</em>,” Julian corrected hastily, jutting his chin out for emphasis. He couldn’t let Dax continue to unsettle him. It wasn’t fair. “Every day just runs right into the next. I feel like I’ve blinked and a month has passed.”</p><p>“Yeah, that’s what being a parent is like a lot of the time. It never stops,” Jadzia agreed. She folded her hands on the table and gave Julian a critical squint. A series of intensifying <em> Uh-oh </em> ’s tingled down his spine. “Don’t you worry about him? How can you protect him from <em> anything </em> if you haven’t even taken the <em> first </em> steps to formalize custody?”</p><p>“I’ve managed to keep him alive just <em> fine </em> so far, thank you!” Julian had had the reply at the ready. And he was <em> right</em>, he knew he was <em> right</em>, despite the tightness in his throat and the invisible boulder that had worked its way into his bowels. The baby was doing well, physically, as Jadzia had already pointed out, was nearing an approximated normal range for weight for his approximated age. He chirped and squealed and whistled lovely greetings to the staff of the infirmary and its patients on a daily basis. Everyone was always telling Julian how <em> happy </em> the baby seemed to be. He <em> had </em> to be doing <em> something </em> right.</p><p>“It’s okay to be scared,” Jadzia offered mildly. Julian clenched his jaw so tightly it hurt. He wasn’t scared. He <em> wasn’t</em>. Just <em> annoyed</em>. Dax could be so damned <em> annoying</em>. “I’m honestly a little insulted that you haven’t at least reached out to <em> me</em>. I’ve raised <em> several </em> children, you know, and some of them… Phew, not easy. Tobin’s son Raifi used to—”</p><p>“I just want things to stay!” Julian interrupted, a little more emphatically than he had intended. The baby muttered and squirmed, and Julian pressed a bracing hand to the carrier, although he wouldn’t have been able to say at that moment if it was to steady the baby or his own nerves. “Just like this, the way we are now. What if I start filing paperwork and the Cardassian government swoops in and takes him away? And even if that <em> doesn’t </em> happen… It’s just a big step, adoption. It’s permanent. Irreversible.” He swallowed. “No going back.”</p><p>Quark set down their drinks and left their table silently, lips pursed at the tension in the air and the soured mood of his patrons.</p><p>“Are you <em> sure </em> you don’t have any experience relevant to longing for a previous life?” Jadzia asked, teasing again, but wryly now, without a smile to soften the blow. When Julian failed to respond, holding his breath against a rude retort, letting the acidity of his rage and pain boil away in his stomach, Jadzia took a measured drink and settled her glass down between her hands on the table, where she fiddled with the stem. She wasn’t through, clearly. “Are you afraid that Garak’s going to make good on his threat? Or are you afraid that he won’t?”</p><p>“To hell with Garak—<em>neither</em>!” Julian exploded, then hung his head. His stores of indignation had been depleted, hadn’t even been that robust to begin with, he was realizing. He almost came apart completely when Jadzia slid a hand across the table to touch the back of his. “Both,” he whispered. “Ah, I’m no good at this. He… This baby deserves a lot more than what I can give him.”</p><p>“You’re so silly,” Jadzia laughed, kind and sweet again, squeezing his hand. Julian turned it in her grasp and squeezed back before he could stop himself. “I always forget how silly you can be. Why were you losing at Tongo last night?”</p><p>The carrier clung tight to his ribs when Julian pulled in a breath. The baby was almost completely still and warm against his chest. Julian took a long drink of his synthale and clunked the glass back down wretchedly.</p><p>“It was… my first night away from him just to, I don’t know, go out? Have some fun? Ensign Vilix’pran offered to watch him. I thought, why not? Vilix'pran’s got six of his own now, he’s perfectly capable, and at least <em> this </em> one doesn’t have wings to get tangled up everywhere, so… probably easy enough… and I thought I wanted to… It would be nice, I thought, to relax for a few hours.”</p><p>“But?”</p><p>“It wasn’t nice.” Julian frowned, uncertain, “I was…” he addressed his synthale, “worried. Not that anything <em> bad </em> was going to happen to him in Vilix’pran’s care or anything like that! I just wondered if he was happy, if he was upset, if he missed me, if he’d had enough to eat, if I’d explained how to relieve him in enough detail, if I’d left enough extra thermals and jumpers, if he was cold. You know, when I’m working, he’s always as close as an adjacent room, and that’s if I’m not…” Julian gestured to the carrier, kept his eyes on his drink. “Last night, I couldn’t focus on the game at all. And it just… wasn’t fun. I couldn’t <em> wait </em> to get here last night, and then as soon as I was here, I couldn’t wait to leave.”</p><p>“I know <em> exactly </em> what you mean. Oh, Julian. <em> Julian</em>, look at me.” Julian did as she asked, again successfully but perhaps unwisely fighting off his own reluctance. It was as he had feared it might be: Jadzia was eyeing him with naked fondness, and he felt a twinge of hot pain to see her face like that, all lit up with concern and care for him. Vexing, gorgeous woman, Jadzia Dax. “You’re going to be a great dad. You already are. Trust me, I’ve seen a few. Done passably well at it myself, once or twice.”</p><p>Julian laughed because he couldn’t help it, because the lighting in Quark’s was suddenly too yellow, because Jadzia was too pretty and too full of contradictions, because his drink was too bitter, because the concept of fatherhood, when applied to himself, was too big and scary to fit in his head. He took another drink and barely managed to swallow before he was overcome again. “Oh!” he spluttered, chuckling. “I’m so sorry. I came in here to check on <em> you</em>, you know.”</p><p>“I’m grateful to have such a sweet friend. And that kid’s going to be grateful too, to have you. He’s lucky! Stop overthinking this. Just… start trying to figure out how to make things official, for <em> both </em> your sakes, okay? You adore him. Come on. This?” Jadzia raised her hand, waving it up and then down in the gestured suggestion of a once-over. “It’s <em> great</em>.”</p><p> </p><h3>[Stardate 49212.9, Garak’s Clothiers, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>Julian offered a nod of acknowledgement to Morn, who was just leaving Garak’s shop as Julian stepped in. Julian had been casually (certainly <em> casually</em>, not at <em> all </em> impatiently) people-watching from across the promenade for the past twenty minutes, waiting for the exchange between vendor and customer to finally come to an end. Of course, Morn was notoriously long-winded, and Garak’s manner of service could tend to draw out what might otherwise be a briefer exchange. Julian knew that Garak made himself easy to talk to toward several ends, not least of which was to pick up and examine any stray bit of information that might be interesting or useful to him, collecting station rumors like a vole hoarding tube casings from the plasma conduits for a nest. Morn was the navel-gazing sort, and perhaps was too self-involved to be plugged into the network of current station happenings of note, but Garak, on the other hand, was the <em> methodical </em> sort, diligent in the extreme.</p><p>“No stone unturned, eh, Garak?”</p><p>“Doctor!” Garak swung around from a display he had been adjusting. He sounded pleased. In the shop, he always sounded pleased. “What a <em> pleasant </em> surprise.”</p><p>“Ba-bepah.” The baby had been sleeping in his carrier but now roused at the sound of Garak’s voice, blinking up at Julian and kicking his little legs with interest.</p><p>“Ah, and you’ve brought your friend, I see.” Plain and simple pleasantness was all that Julian could detect. That was typical of Garak’s transactional persona, here under the artificial light of day, surrounded by wares that needed to be moved.</p><p>“Garak, I…” Julian folded a protective hand over the baby’s carrier as Garak stepped into their bubble. “I need to clear the air with you.” He watched the corners of Garak’s mouth, which Julian had figured out some time ago were the Cardassian’s only tell (Julian reaffirmed to himself that he would never, <em> ever </em> share this discovery with Garak). But Garak’s smile remained frozen, revealing nothing. He was waiting for more. “I want to move forward. I want to formalize the adoption, and… I need to be sure that you’re not going to get in my way.”</p><p>“In your <em> way</em>?” The expressive eye ridges went up, and the expressive eye ridges came down. “There seems to have been a terrible misunderstanding.”</p><p>“You said you were going to <em> report </em> me! For <em> kidnapping</em>!” Julian squeaked. It was just <em> awful</em>, how off-balance he would often find himself with Garak. There were so many considerations to take into account: <em> Had </em> it been a misunderstanding? And if so, had Julian unwittingly spread maliciously untrue gossip about someone he (at times, maybe even <em> most </em> times) considered a good friend? And might Garak already be <em> aware </em> of said malicious gossip? <em> Oh, no</em>. Or was this a ploy to ease him into complacency, a trap? <em> Oh, no! </em> And what form might such a trap take? An easy smile, a casual dismissal, just like this? <em> OH, N— </em></p><p>“My <em> dear </em> Doctor.” Garak’s smile was back. He shook his head slowly in mocking chastisement, as if he could see the anxieties taking shape and speedily chasing one another around in Julian’s head. “My only intention was to warn you about a <em> possible </em> manner by which Cardassian law <em> could </em> be applied to your… situation. And, of course, to offer my help.”</p><p>“Well, then, <em> help </em> me.” The anxieties were all derailing, crashing together in a cacophony that blocked out reason and deduction and caution, and Julian couldn’t <em> do </em> this, couldn’t draw this interaction out into yet another game. There was too much at stake. He needed clarity. Or at least, he felt compelled to demand it, even if Garak wouldn’t or couldn’t give it. “I <em> want </em> this.” Julian looked down. The little Cardassian looked up at him and burbled an affectionate raspberry, seeming to mistake Julian’s distress for innocent attention.</p><p>“As usual, you certainly want <em> something</em>.” Garak looked over Julian’s shoulder and then reached out to guide him deeper into the shop, out of view of the promenade. Against the back wall, among racks of unfinished commissions, Garak’s smile immediately faltered, and his eyes shone sharp and threatening, as they had when he had last invited himself into Julian’s quarters. “I’m not sure you know what it is you’re getting.”</p><p>“I don’t claim to <em> know</em>,” Julian hissed. Why were they whispering? He cleared his throat and continued evenly: “I <em> want </em> to take care of him. He’s not going to have that on Cardassia Prime or anywhere else in the Union. The State won’t give him <em> love</em>.”</p><p>“You’re expressing dangerously <em> human </em> priorities for raising children, Doctor.” Julian opened his mouth to protest but let himself be stayed by another shake of Garak’s head. “Perhaps he will be loved by <em> you </em> if he remains here. But this station promises little in the way of warmth or comfort to any Cardassian. He’ll be alone, even <em> with </em> you. Prime is far away, but it’s near enough to call to him.” When Garak raised his hand and reached for the carrier, Julian allowed it. He let Garak fold down the edge and take a look at the black hair, the slope of tiny aural ridges. Garak had lowered his eyes, focusing on the child. Julian searched his friend’s face, suddenly humbled. Never had he been more certain that Garak had made his home here against his will, away from what he knew and loved best. It was a hard thing to reconcile against that which Julian also knew to be true of the plain and simple tailor: he was an operative, had to be, an active one, at least up until uncomfortably recent times.</p><p>“Here,” Julian said finally. He lifted the baby out of the carrier and pushed him gently into Garak’s arms, which were open, accepting, waiting. Garak rallied his smile once again and gave the child a satisfied bounce in his arms.</p><p>“His health has vastly improved. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”</p><p>“Oh!” Julian closed his eyes briefly against a flash of heat to his cheeks and brow, equal parts pleased and embarrassed. “He’s, ah… He’s a strong kid.”</p><p>“And you’re a very good doctor,” Garak insisted. “And perhaps… Well.” Garak smoothed the baby’s hair and examined him closely, tilting the clementine head this way and that. The little Cardassian cooed and huffed, and his nostrils were flaring, as if in primal recognition of his kind.</p><p>“I want him to <em> know </em> he’s Cardassian,” Julian said. The sentiment had been yanked from him by the unlikely sight of this baby, <em> his baby </em> (Oh, so strange, still! So disconcerting, the thought! The hope!), nestling so fondly into Garak’s arms. “When you say that he’ll be… called. I mean, Garak, I’m not a fool. Eventually, all children <em> leave</em>.”</p><p>And Julian himself had certainly left, dragging the heavy burden of his own parents’ expectations across the quadrant. He’d gone as far away as he could carry himself <em> and </em> that whole mess, that whole history, all the disappointments, and of course, the Big Lie. That dynamic wasn’t something he wanted to carry forward, not even in its smallest part. It hadn’t even occurred to Julian to call his own mother, not once, for the entire month and a half that his life had been upended in service to an infant Cardassian’s many needs. Unlike some other oversights he’d lately made, Julian couldn’t summon much regret for that one. </p><p>A memory of Rugal, the boy’s face tight with unhappiness as his custodial fate had been decided, surfaced. Julian didn’t want to impart any such identity confusion, either. The baby in Garak’s arms would never really be human, and never really, Julian was just now realizing, be <em> his</em>. He had been born a Cardassian and a Cardassian he would remain. If the child was ever to leave, and yes, it was very likely inevitable, then Julian wanted him to do so with the assurance that he would be supported and loved and accepted for his <em> own </em> goals, for his <em> own </em> ways. </p><p>Julian had to start managing his expectations, right now. There were some things, <em> necessary </em> things, that Julian simply couldn’t offer. And he refused to pretend otherwise. He wouldn’t pretend, not with this child, and not with himself, not anymore.</p><p>“Tell me you’ll <em> help </em> me.” Julian reached out and gently ruffled the baby’s smooth hair. It was hard to raise his gaze to meet Garak’s, but he did it. He poured every ounce of earnestness into the look, pleading.</p><p>Julian wasn’t sure what he was expecting to find there in Garak’s eyes, but an answering softness, a surrendering warmth, certainly wasn’t it. Garak looked wounded somehow, like he was trying to process a slight Julian had inadvertently given him. His recovering smile was a little shaky. The corners of his mouth didn’t seem to know how to turn, twitching with some emotion that the Cardassian seemed desperate to keep off his face. “My dear Doctor. How could I say no?”</p><p>“Ha!” Julian exclaimed, but then he ducked his head, snapping up the drawbridge of understanding that had for a moment connected them. The sheer joy curdled quickly into worry. It was a dangerous thing, Julian knew, to expose any vulnerability to Elim Garak.</p><p>“Take him back. I’ve got some more things for you.”</p><p>Julian blinked and smiled and reached, and the baby, as comfortable as he had been in Garak’s arms, seemed very pleased indeed to be returning to Julian’s. Garak disappeared into the back room of his shop. </p><p>Julian had only just settled them, the baby secured in the carrier, his own nerves soothed with a few deep breaths, when Garak returned with a high stack of tiny folded garments. The Cardassian tailor retrieved a duffel from behind a tall counter and proceeded to lay each piece carefully within.</p><p>“All for you,” Garak said when Julian shook his head in inadvisably open wonder. “It’ll keep him for the next year, at least. Organized top to bottom with anticipated increasing measurements in mind. Hand-made, of course.”</p><p>“I don’t…” Julian crouched and let Garak move the strap of the bag around his shoulder. “Where did you find the time to…” The weight of it was <em> considerable </em>. “I can’t believe…”</p><p>“<em>I</em> believe the phrase you’re looking for is ‘thank you,’” Garak chuckled. He pressed a warm hand to Julian’s elbow.</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>“You’ll allow me a few days to accumulate some advice on how to proceed. With the adoption.”</p><p>“Yes.” Julian shook his head again, despite himself. “I mean, of course.”</p><p> </p><h3>[Stardate 49213.0, Corridor H5-F, Level 5, Habitat Ring, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>Under the spectacular combined weight of a squirmy Cardassian baby and a duffel practically bursting with little outfits, Julian should have felt encumbered. But as he made his way back to his quarters (for another evening consisting of a few hasty bites of Replicated dinner, the routine of feeding, relieving, clothing, mumbling half-remembered bedtime stories, tucking in once or seven times as needed), Julian considered comming Ops, just to check on the status of the station’s artificial gravity. The consideration made him laugh again, which elicited a pleased wriggle from the baby and a startled look from a Bajoran security officer passing in the hallway. Julian felt light. He felt free.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Baby gets a name next chapter, I promise.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>In this canon-divergent AU, the main events of <em>Dr. Bashir, I Presume</em> take place much earlier in the chronology of the series, during the year 2371. The main plot arc of this work takes place a year later, in 2372.</p><p>I’ve cleaned up the tags a little, realizing that I was just going to keep adding folks who may or may not reappear as features in later chapters. This is now officially an ensemble piece!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3>[Stardate 49226.0, Quark’s, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>A dissonant moment: </p><p>The distinct and pleasant pressure of Thom’s wide hand to the small of his back. The warmth of it, through his uniform. Quiet. Nice. </p><p>Kabo’s shrill shriek of ‘<em>Dabo!</em>’. Kahrimanis’ answering cackle. Loud. But nice, too, in its way. </p><p>Maybe not so dissonant. Julian was having a good time. </p><p>Multiple future possibilities folded out neatly from the moment, and one gleamed with particular attractiveness as Julian shot a glance out from his periphery and took in the invitation of Thom’s mirthful eyes. The invitation, though clear enough (he and Thom hadn’t verbally agreed to any given progression on any given night; such things were acknowledged between them in other ways that were nonetheless to-the-point), certainly wasn’t a demand or even really a <em> request</em>. Quark’s was crowded tonight, and many opportunities for many forms of fun waited for men like Thom Guerrette beyond the way his fingers lingered with that tiny little <em> Do-you-wanna? </em> press to Julian’s spine. The night was young. For men like Thom Guerrette, at least.</p><p>“I have to be going!” Julian made himself shout to Kabo over the din. His back felt cold when Thom drew his hand away with all the casual subtlety of an acknowledged rain check.</p><p>“You just <em> got </em> here!” Kahrimanis moaned. She was already obviously drunk on whatever concoction-du-jour Quark and his staff had cooked up. Julian had steered clear.</p><p>“<em>Dad </em> here has a curfew.” Thom punctuated his teasing with a quick wink that Julian <em> hoped </em> he was the only one to catch. It wasn’t that he might be embarrassed, under normal circumstances, to be romantically linked with the likes of Nurse Guerrette, a legend on the station for his prowess. The way his full, pale cheeks flushed so prettily, the way his deep set green eyes sparkled with all kinds of fun promises (promises that he could <em> certainly </em> make good on), the mischievous scrunch that often crinkled the bridge of his nose and drew out his pretty bee-stung lips in a very sweet, very biteable pout (<em>ah, very, very biteable</em>)… well, it was perfectly natural that anyone would find him worthy of an evening or five, or more. It was just that the circumstances were no longer <em> normal</em>, as Thom had so helpfully pointed out. Julian felt the same fretful pull that had ruined a recent free evening of Tongo. A <em> Dad </em> didn’t leave his dutiful sitter wondering and worrying while a <em> Dad </em> went off to sample the night’s delights. As tempting as it might be for a <em> Dad </em> to do so.</p><p>“I’ve got an early shift tomorrow,” Julian said, merely by way of reminder—all of them were familiar with the now-usual rotation. “And I’ve got a lunch engagement after that.”</p><p>“Back to your <em> lunch engagements</em>, are you?” Guerrette clicked his tongue. He didn’t need Julian to tell him that he’d taken the teasing and overtures a step too far, so Julian suppressed the urge to glare outright, trusting Thom would rein himself in. They were off duty after all. The occasional slip-up was to be expected and forgiven. “Ah, at least take a spin, Doctor. Lady luck is with us tonight!” An admirable recovery, so Julian took Thom up on this second, less involved invitation and let the Dabo girl wink and cajole him into a bad bet. And, predictably, on the spin, he lost some credits. Dabo had never been his game. At least not the winning money part of it.</p><p>“Let Kabo back in!” Kahrimanis pleaded. She weaved slightly in place, sloshing a few drops of her mystery beverage onto the Dabo table. It was a good thing she wasn’t scheduled until late afternoon the following day. She’d be useless, it was likely, even then. “Lady luck is <em> real, </em> and she’s <em> beautiful</em>, and she’s <em> blue</em>, and she’s right in front of us!”</p><p>Julian shared a giggle with Kabo, who quickly took position to spin again. As the Bolian nurse and the drunk human ensign were distracted by the colorful whirl of chance and the Dabo girl’s bouncing tits, Julian clapped a hand to Thom’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Another time,” he murmured. He watched Thom’s mouth for a moment and drained the last of his synthale. Thom swallowed—<em>hard</em>, Julian could almost hear it, could almost pick it out from the ambient noise—and that fetching blush crept up from his collar and over his cheeks from his neck and ears.</p><p>“Another time,” Thom replied in a breathless whisper with an easy smile. Julian knew that the rain check was as good as banked. Dabo… a lucrative game, if one understood the rules.</p><p> </p>
<h3>[Stardate 49226.1, Private Quarters, Corridor H5-F, Level 5, Habitat Ring, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>Some time later, alone in his bed, with the baby settled and quiet in the adjacent room of these recently assigned family quarters, with the sheets and blanket thrown here and there on either side, and himself in nothing more than short trunks to deal with the heat that made it more likely that the baby would sleep through the night, Julian considered. </p><p>He <em> could </em> masturbate. </p><p>It had been a while, and there was nothing stopping him. And certainly, the desire was there. Fantasy and memory both pulled alluringly: the recollected confident grasp of Thom’s lovely big hands on his buttocks, and, of course, the promise of more of the same; the imagined heady smell of Jadzia Dax’s decorated neck, spots that went <em> all </em> the way down. </p><p>Hm.</p><p>But then something <em> else </em> bubbled up, as Julian’s hands meandered down his chest (a little pinch in passing to his nipples—not something typically favored as a warm up, but Thom had done that to him the last time, and it had surprised and pleased him), and then traveled lower over a trembling, taut belly, to the patch of hair that started just under his navel (and that he had neglected in recent weeks to keep trimmed to his usual precise personal specifications). Julian’s imaginings and memories swirled into something that suddenly wasn’t, or at least shouldn’t have been, so titillating: the simple tilt of a head; shadows creeping over divots in the scales on a neck; bright blue eyes looking <em> hurt </em> , because Julian, only Julian, had the power to make this one <em> hurt</em>, to make this one <em> open </em> and <em> hurt </em> from <em> wanting</em>; the crossing of legs in the Replimat. <em> I wonder if… </em> “<em>Ga-rak</em>,” Julian croaked to the darkness.</p><p><em> No! </em> Julian opened his eyes wide. He didn’t know when they had drifted closed. Julian resolutely moved his hands away from his groin, bunched the previously cast-aside blanket in tightened fists, made himself aware of his own breathing, slowed it. </p><p>It was novel, oh thrillingly unexpected, but maybe not entirely <em> new</em>. Julian’s hot blood was singing it like an old, familiar tune. He had closed his eyes and Garak had been there, waiting. Surprising, but not. One learned to expect Garak to turn up anywhere at any time for any reason.</p><p>Perhaps it was normal, Julian frantically supposed, to consider anew the partnership potential of those known members of an adopted child’s species. There was likely an explanation, a perfectly <em> good </em> explanation, a perfectly <em> boring </em> one, even if it tended dangerously toward the deterministic, one that Julian would be able to research and use in support of his hypothesized normalcy.</p><p>But <em> Garak</em>? ‘Plain and simple’ <em> Garak</em>? The man, no, the <em> tapestry </em> of a man woven out of a thousand lies? That grinning tool of an oppressive and far-reaching State, who would silence or extract indifferently as ordered? </p><p>It was an area too mined with latent guilt to tread over even lightly, far beyond the no-man’s-land of moral ambiguity. It would be irresponsible. More irresponsible even than accepting Garak in the parental advisory role for which Julian had sought out this man, the only Cardassian authority at hand. </p><p>Garak had the capacity to be kind, thoughtful. He’d proven that more than once. But, that didn’t mean he could be trusted. Or that he was <em> good</em>. Or that he should even idly, even just <em> once in a while</em>, be imagined to be sexy in all his mysteriousness. The more Julian had learned about Garak over the years, the more his initial fantasy of the debonair government agent had been eroded by the unsavory realities and consequences of spycraft. There had certainly been consequences for Garak (Julian thought of the implant he had removed) but on the other hand, Garak had certainly, it was really very likely, meted consequences out on behalf of the great State quite generously as well. </p><p>Tidy separation of thought, feeling, and instinct needed to be maintained at all costs, and Julian knew he had to keep his wits about him. For everyone’s sake. He couldn’t afford to get so mixed up, even if it was perfectly sexually reasonable, absolutely erotically plausible. </p><p>There <em> was </em> something about Elim Garak, just taken at face value, wasn’t there? The phrase <em> je ne sais quois </em> had certainly been <em> invented </em> for that type, for his smooth hair, the flattering fit of his refined dark clothing, a smile that waited just atop a tucked chin (a secret always in and of itself), eyes that sparkled and searched and flashed but eventually revealed nothing. Julian wondered if Garak was considered at all generally physically attractive among his own kind. </p><p>Obviously, Garak was past his prime. The way he sometimes mocked Julian’s existential dread and the way he sometimes picked at his food and complained about a softer middle made it hard to forget that Garak was not a young man. And Julian, typically, wouldn’t go for an older man. But with eyes like <em> that</em>, with a smile like <em> that</em>, certainly, and sometimes, the <em> smell </em> of his— <em> That’s quite enough of that! You’re supposed to know better! </em> The chiding came from within his own mind but wasn’t coming through in his own voice. <em> Sacrifices were made... </em> It was an old thread, that, when pulled, shouldn’t have led anywhere but to its own frayed end. But where it did lead was a conjured cell, lightless and bare (which made no sense, as the penal institution was touted for its offered comforts of space and scenery in the maintenance of the dignity of its inmates). <b> <em>You</em> </b> <em> set the bar at frontier medicine, Jules. And Tongo, and all these stupid flings that will never mean anything. You had a life laid out for you, once. All you had to do was live it. Don’t you remember? We were happy. It was easy. It was good. </em> </p><p>“It wasn’t!” Julian gasped to no one. “<em>I </em> wasn’t.”</p><p>There were things that could not be, even now. Even if only not-quite-fully realized in fantasy, these things would cause more harm than good for their blind wishfulness. And Julian couldn’t afford to be blind, even in optimism. Not anymore. And Julian wouldn’t knowingly cause harm, <em> especially </em> since there was now the wellbeing of a child to consider. Naivete was a mask that had outlived its use for the augment, now father (<em>of a sort </em>, the voice-inside-that-was-not-his-own sneered), Julian Bashir. Had things been so terrifying and uncertain for Richard and Amsha, once upon a time? Would it make any difference to know either way?</p><p><em> Thom, I should have brought Thom home with me</em>. It was the pent-up energy, that was all, the tension of the evening, having to say no when one wanted to say yes. It made sense that Julian’s thoughts were spinning, spiralling, going nowhere productive. It wasn’t surprising, and it would subside.</p><p>“<em>Ihhh? </em>” Julian’s combadge on the nightstand whined blearily. The baby was awake, in need of relief or a little snack to resettle. Maybe he just wanted to be held. Julian rolled out of his bed and to his feet. He went into the next room to investigate.</p><p> </p>
<h3>[Stardate 49227.5, Replimat, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>“Hakod.”</p><p>Julian pulled a face, glanced with exaggerated distaste down at the baby, who smiled up at him with a little squeal. “No.”</p><p>“No? It sounds to me like he <em> approves </em> of that one. Maybe Biram?”</p><p>“<em>Ugh</em>!”</p><p>Garak shook his head and leaned back in his chair in a sudden fit of laughter. “Doctor,” he managed after a moment, “we’ve been trying for an <em> hour</em>! A child <em> needs </em> a <em> name</em>!”</p><p>“Well, a <em> good </em> name, though.” Julian finished his tepid tea and pulled the subject of debate from the carrier, balancing the weight of the baby against a forearm. The child reached up and patted Julian’s chest with the meaty flats of his little palms. “You don’t look like a <em> Biram </em> to <em> me</em>,” Julian assured him.</p><p>“Ah!” Garak raised fingers with a triumphant snap. “Tornor!”</p><p>Julian gasped and moved his free hand in mocking affront to briefly shield the baby’s aural ridges. “I am <em> not </em> naming him after a third-generation character from the most mind-numbingly boring work in Cardassian literary history.”</p><p>“I’ll pretend neither of us just now heard such slander about our people’s greatest repetitive epic. And I know better now than to be flattered that you remember the reference.” Garak removed the napkin from his neckline and flung it over his long-empty plate with an exasperation that seemed suspiciously played up to Julian. “We could always consider the offerings of the second generation, or the fourth. By the sixth, they’re all a bit derivative, I’ll give you that.”</p><p>Julian almost, <em> almost </em> stuck his tongue out in response. There was something different about the teasing and the playful disagreement when the subject was a shared focus of care, when the considerations were not so theoretical. The way that Garak had said ‘we could always consider’ and even ‘our people’ felt like... well, invitations of a sort. He and Julian weren’t setting up their arguments across the table from one another for the usual game, as opponents. This was <em> inclusive </em> somehow. Warmer. Like a team. <em> Don’t trust him… Don’t be a fool. </em></p><p>“I guess you’ve never had to think about this sort of thing before, either,” Julian offered, trying for breeziness, “naming a child, that is.” But perhaps he was wrong. Oh, most <em> certainly </em> he was wrong, on second thought. In Garak’s years of service to the Union he had no doubt created any number of aliases for himself and others. Julian squinted into an accusing wink and tilted his head to leer at Garak with his open eye, pointing for good measure. “You’re enjoying this.”</p><p>Garak’s eyes widened with apparent surprise, but his smile was broad and uncomplicated. “I’m very pleased at least that you have the good sense to consider a Cardassian name for a Cardassian child. And I’m honored”—He punctuated the assertion with a short nod—“to offer my help.” Garak looked away then, fussing momentarily with a utensil. “Even though you don’t seem to value it in the slightest,” he finished on a mutter.</p><p>“Come <em>on</em>, Garak. <em>Think</em>.” Julian held the baby up and out across the table. As Garak accepted the child into his embrace, they both laughed and cooed at one another. Garak even dipped his head down in what was almost a nuzzle, briefly tipping his forehead for contact with the baby’s. It was a fine picture, certainly. Not something that Julian would ever have been able to conceive of without the reality of it unfolding right in front of his face: this was Garak, <em>Garak</em> of all people, grinning and animated and silly with fondness over a babe-in-arms. <em>Not something to be dwelled upon, either.</em> <em>Not something to be trusted.</em> The voice-that-was-not-his-own was articulate to the point of jarring today, had been active since the previous evening. It was annoying, but Julian was used to ignoring it. “<em>Really</em> think. Maybe he resembles someone you know. Someone with a better name than <em>Hakod</em>.”</p><p>“Someone I know? It isn’t the Cardassian way, a convention of <em> casual </em> namesakes.”</p><p>“Well?” Julian plunked his cheek down into his hand, leaning on the table. “I’m all out of ideas. Maybe he <em> will </em> just have to be ‘chum’ or ‘otherwise unnamed Son of Bashir’ forever. O-U-S-O-B. <em> Ousob</em>.”</p><p>“Oob?”</p><p>Julian scrunched his nose and laughed, winking at the baby from across the table. “At least he can pretty much say it! <em> Oob </em> it is, then. I think we’re done here.”</p><p>“Ah, no. No, no, no,” Garak tutted, and it wasn’t clear whether he was attempting to soothe and reassure both the baby and Julian with his soft tone, or that he anticipated Julian’s restlessness and wasn’t quite ready to hand over the unnamed little one of the hour. Garak lifted his head back and appraised the child down the length of his nose. The baby reached for his chin, and Garak sighed and leaned into the offered contact. “What about... Tolan?” It was suggested quietly, with some hesitation, as if the name had been hard to say. Garak still focused on the baby, nudging his face and squeezing him. He only looked up when Julian didn’t respond after <em> more </em> than a few moments.</p><p>“I don’t…” Julian licked his lips, caught sight of something fleeting and vulnerable in Garak’s gaze. Something he didn’t totally recognize. Something terribly fascinating. “I don’t <em> hate </em> it,” he finally offered. In fact, he found he sort of liked it. “Who is Tolan?”</p><p>“Who <em> was </em> Tolan,” Garak corrected, evenly, without a flicker of regret, but he angled his gaze away again. He shrugged, smiled a little, kissed the top of the baby’s head, did everything he could apparently do to buy himself a few more seconds avoiding the eye contact Julian sought. <em> What </em> was going <em> on </em> here? “An... uncle.” Garak seemed to fiddle with the word. “He was a gardener.” More fiddling. “He was very kind to me.” That last part at least seemed to come easily.</p><p>“Hmm.” Julian was still watching closely. Was this all he was going to get? Garak still wouldn’t look at him. “An uncle. Hm. A gardener, you say… like you’re a tailor?”</p><p><em> That </em> earned Julian some reproach. All semblance of warmth evaporated from Garak’s face in an instant when he did finally raise his head to fully return Julian’s stare. The eye ridges took a dreadful plunge. The blue of the irises went shaded and cold even under the Replimat lights. Julian waited. </p><p>The baby made a forlorn, questioning noise and burped moistly. Garak was slow to respond, but eventually he breathed again. He reached down with the end of his sleeve and absently dabbed the baby’s mouth. It was only then that Garak seemed to register the sour expression on his own face, and he forcibly relaxed it. Julian blinked as though he couldn’t <em> imagine </em> what it <em> was </em> about what he had said that could have <em> possibly </em> been misconstrued to cause offense. This was part of the game, after all. Sometimes it could sting to lose a point. But Julian wasn’t about to name his own son after anyone with a past as checkered as Garak’s. Garak needed to know that.</p><p>“A <em> gardener</em>, my dear Doctor,” Garak insisted, quietly, not unkindly. “Tolan was a gardener like any gardener you might know. Better at his art than most, I will say.”</p><p>“I guess I don’t know any gardeners,” Julian admitted. Some new dangerous element had been introduced to their game. There was still something cruel and twisted hovering between them, barely seen, not really understood. Julian didn’t know quite why, but suddenly he wanted the baby back in his arms. “When it comes to Cardassians, I only know <em> tailors</em>. And <em> spies</em>,” he sniffed, anticipating and forestalling Garak’s protest, “and Dukat.”</p><p>“Well, at least tell me that <em> Skrain </em> is <em> not </em> being considered,” Garak quipped. The smile was back on his face. The baby visibly relaxed. Julian’s arms felt a little less empty. “<em>Terrible </em> names, all of the Dukats.”</p><p>“Skrain? Bleh!” Julian agreed. “Absolutely not.” The tension had been cut, or at least obscured, for now. Julian cleared his throat to turn the page. “So, if it’s going to be Tolan, then what’s next?”</p><p>“Ah. I can show you, if you wouldn’t mind...” Garak ran a knuckle down an aural ridge with touching (to Julian, <em> stunning </em> ) affection, and then passed the baby back. Julian brought his nose down to the scalp and inhaled, and the baby smelled so <em> good</em>. Not like human babies, not sweet and milky and sleepy, more like clove, mildly smoky, and there was some savory note there that wasn’t quite meaty, but approaching salty. Julian smiled against the baby’s hair. Wasn’t there some centuries-old, long-debunked research linking areas of the human brain responsible for a ‘cuteness’ response on the one hand and an urge to devour on the other? <em> You’re so cute I want to eat— </em>“Doctor Bashir.”</p><p>“Hmm?” Julian blinked, straightened in his chair. “Yes. Right.” He held the baby up a little. The baby looked at him. Julian looked back. “So, Tolan, is it? Do you like that name?” </p><p>The little Cardassian squirmed, extended a chubby arm, and just touched the end of Julian’s nose with a finger. “Oob,” the baby said solemnly. Julian flushed and shut his eyes, smiled blindly. He could hear Garak laughing again across the table, that warm, rolling chuckle.</p><p>“It’s, ah…” Julian opened his eyes, drew the baby close, planted several adoring kisses to his forehead until he giggled. “It’s not going to be ‘Oob,’ my darling. I think we’ll have to settle for the popular choice. Majority rules, I’m afraid.”</p><p>“Excellent fatherly judgment on your part.” Garak slid a padd across the table. Julian settled the baby in his lap and picked the padd up to study it.</p><p>“It’s…” Julian glanced up, winced and gave the padd a regretful little shake. “This is all Cardassian legalese… <em> in Kardasi</em>, no less. Some of these words have seven prepositions!” Defensive, on-guard. Garak was watching. “I don’t think I can make sense of this,” Julian murmured finally, hot and unhappy. Eventually, he'd really have to brush up.</p><p>“Of course.” Garak shrugged, looked slightly put-upon for a moment, and then vaguely bored. “All applications of this sort are <em> reviewed </em> regardless of the language in which they are submitted. If there’s to be even the smallest chance of <em> approval</em>, however, that language had better be <em> Kardasi</em>.”</p><p>“The <em> smallest </em> chance?” Julian squeaked. </p><p>“A mark, there, at the end, and a retinal scan, and that should be all that’s required of you,” Garak continued as if he had not heard Julian’s interjection.</p><p>“But there’s still a chance that…”</p><p>Garak waved impatiently to the padd. “I told you that I would help you, and I have. And I will continue to help you. But as with all applications, there are no guarantees. I’ve done my best to improve the likelihood that this one will be accepted. I’d rather not paint a detailed picture of every string I had to pull and every favor I had to call in to get this in order, but we can review the application paragraph for paragraph if you <em> insist</em>.”</p><p><em> Or I can trust him</em>.</p><p>
  <em> Don’t be thick, Jules. You know you can’t.  </em>
</p><p>Julian sighed. Paragraph for paragraph review sounded like a recipe for layers and layers of lies, an imbricated lasagna of dishonesty. Even the list of favors could be wholly and easily fabricated. The console in the infirmary, if asked, would pop out a translation, but such a translation would likely be poor, or at least lacking the nuance required for an exhaustive legal review. </p><p>But he had <em> asked </em> for this. He had asked for Garak’s help, almost begged for it. And this way created a buffer of plausible deniability, at least. What other options were there? This wasn't a fork in the road, but rather a choice between moving forward or holding back.</p><p>Silently, Julian made his mark on the padd.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Flotsam, Jetsam, now I’ve got him, boys. THE BOSS IS ON A ROLLLLLLL. Lol whoops wrong narrative. Kind of.</p><p>You may have noticed that the projected ending chapter count has gone up significantly. I *THINK* 15 is all I’ll need to wrap this up, but to be honest, I haven’t even gotten to the juicy part of this story and the next couple of chapters take up only a very short period of narrative time. -_- We’ll see how it goes!</p><p>PLEASE talk to me, people! Am I boring ya? Am I thrilling ya? Am I doing ya a heckin' confuse? The burn is molasses with this one, and I know that can be tough to slog through (it's been a tripppppp to try to write). I appreciate any feedback y'all can provide :) (I am but a humble dragon, hoarding comments)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>In this canon-divergent AU, the main events of <em>Dr. Bashir, I Presume</em> take place much earlier in the chronology of the series, during the year 2371. The main plot arc of this work takes place a year later, in 2372.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3>[Stardate 49285.0, Infirmary, Deep Space 9]</h3><p>“I just don’t think it’s right to use your staff like this—as glorified babysitters! There’s a nursery, you know.”</p><p>Julian flicked his eyes up from tricorder readings and lowered the Mark X scanner in his right hand with concentrated steadiness. “I’m well aware of that, Major.” The check-up had started out routinely enough, but Kira had wasted no time inserting herself into his business. It was unexpected and therefore all the more unpleasant. “Right as rain on this end. You’d better get moving. Don’t you have a conference to jet off to?”</p><p>“I’m not sure I <em> like </em> this!” Kira said, in that peculiarly smiling but humorlessly emphatic way that was specifically hers. Always had been cool under fire, the Major—a looser cannon in less dire circumstances, Julian had noted many times over the years. She got up from the biobed and faced Julian with her hands on her hips. “Dax has been ranting and raving about this <em> great </em> change that you’ve gone through. But I have to admit it, Julian... I just don’t see it. You’re so dour, lately! So uptight!”</p><p>“Major…” He hoped that fixing her with a <em> look </em> would highlight the hypocrisy and stave off more ad hominems. It seemed to Julian that in the imagined scenario of being held at phaser-point and forced to choose three words to describe herself, certainly Kira would at least <em> linger </em> over ‘uptight,’ if she was being honest with herself. And the mention of Dax was immediately suspicious, although Julian knew Kira as a generally unwilling ear for gossip. </p><p>“Honestly,”—She tilted her hips under her hands, and it was a challenge, not at all to be misconstrued as an invitation, and Julian didn’t—“I think you’re just jealous that <em> you’re </em> not going to the conference. The Captain has a word for it—<em>benched</em>.”</p><p>“<em>Nerys</em>!” It tumbled out halfway between a laugh and a scoff. If she wanted to get personal, then Julian would meet her right there, beyond the bounds of professional respect typically marked out by her rank and position.</p><p>“When was the last time you even left the station?” She was going for broke, unfazed. “Be honest.”</p><p>“Pentath III, as I’m sure you already know. You’re the one with the manifests,” Julian answered, trying to sound mild, affect some level of boredom. Where had he picked up <em> that </em> particular sort of deflection? Well, anyway, he certainly wouldn’t <em> reward </em> rudeness and presumption; he wouldn’t even <em> put up </em> with either for long, not even from this source. But it wouldn’t do to jump straight to pissing off Major Kira Nerys. If she would just get to the damned <em> point</em>. He turned away to sterilize and put away his instruments. Maybe she’d feel better talking to his back.</p><p>“All right, I’ve tried the clever way. Enough of <em> that</em>.” There was a hand on his elbow suddenly, the touch a good deal firmer than feather-light, and Julian wheeled around, ducking his head to conceal a gulp as Kira searched his eyes. She was someone who was frequently recalled to be much taller than she actually was, and there was a good reason for that. Being pinned down by her stare had a tendency to make one feel very small indeed. “Look, you’re a <em> good </em> doctor. And you’re a <em> fine </em> officer. But I know, <em> everyone </em> knows, how distracted and obsessed you can get with new projects.” She shook her head. That humorless grin made another appearance. “Fatherhood isn’t a <em> project</em>, Julian. A baby isn’t an excuse to avoid away missions just because you’re scared of failing again. I know you feel terrible about Pentath III. But you can’t do penance like this. It’s costing all of us, not just you. And I mean that in a way that’s <em> least </em> flattering to your ego, believe me!”</p><p>“The Captain doesn’t seem to mind the arrangements I’ve made for Tolan’s care.” Julian shrugged, held Kira’s gaze with no small effort, hot behind the ears, more than sufficiently called out and miserable for it. “He told me to take all the time I needed to get him settled, in fact.”</p><p>“Well, then he’s sure put both of us in an awkward position. It’s been <em> months</em>. He’s days away from <em> ordering </em> you to make other arrangements.” Kira frowned, looked at the ceiling, looked back at Julian. It was the deadpan of someone used to having her patience tested; Julian recognized it. “I understand that you might feel… hesitant to leave Tolan in the care of Bajorans.”</p><p>“<em>No</em>, Kira, it’s <em> not</em>—”</p><p>“Oh, come <em> on</em>. That has to be part of it. Here, in the infirmary, you can observe. I get it.” Kira took a step back and flapped her arms against her sides, half-surrender and half-demand. “I’ve been asked to <em> personally </em> assure you that the care Tolan will receive <em> in the nursery </em> while you carry out the obligations of your commission and practice both on Deep Space 9 and off-station, will be <em> nonpareil</em>.” The strain of the last word came through harshly as she ran out of breath. It had certainly been quite the assertion.</p><p>“Did Sisko really ask you to say all that?” Julian almost laughed. Almost.</p><p>“Nonpareil!” Kira repeated with the hint of a smile, a <em> real </em> smile, bobbing her head somewhere between a nod and a shake, still panting a little. “You have my <em> personal </em> assurance.”</p><p>“I’m sorry you’ve been put in the middle of this,” Julian replied. And he was sorry, a little bit, at least. Kira could be direct to the point of tactlessness, often was in fact, but as a doctor, Julian knew very well what it meant to play the messenger expecting to get shot. “It really has <em> nothing </em> to do with my confidence in the staff of the nursery. And nothing to do with the fact that Tolan is Cardassian. Well, not like <em> that</em>, not because the nursery staff are Bajoran.”</p><p>Kira looked suddenly uncomfortable. Had Julian missed some important mark? But her features softened after a moment. “Tell me what to say. How can I <em> really </em> assure you?”</p><p>“I don’t know what <em> can </em> be said.” He didn’t, other than the obvious. “He’s traumatized. He’s been abandoned over and over.” Julian paused. One of his incisors latched into a raw patch of his inner lip, worn, painfully familiar ground. “I don’t want him to go through that ever again. He needs to know I’m here, no matter what.”</p><p>Kira sucked in her cheeks, splayed her fingers against her legs. “You’d probably be surprised to learn that I understand that sentiment completely.” Another smile, this time more than a hint, warmer, and she stepped closer to Julian again, seeming much more compact all of a sudden. Julian looked down to meet her eyes. “You’re really very sweet, you know.” The heat behind Julian’s ears crept down along his jaw and up over his temples, but it was substantially less miserable for all that it was spreading. “I see it now, what Dax was saying.”</p><p>“Well, what am I going to do?” Julian whispered. Kira took his hands and squeezed, and the prolonged physical intimacy was a zap to Julian’s unprepared system. Of course he understood Bajorans as an incredibly tactile people, and Kira had become a friend. But it had been quite some time since he’d been touched so pointedly, with such affection and warmth, outside of Tolan’s clumsy pats and grabs.</p><p>“You’re going to have to make a choice.” Kira released him. “A tough one. Is he napping?”</p><p>Julian shook his head with the dual purpose of clearing it and chastising himself. A <em> choice </em>? “Wha—Yes. I put him down a couple hours ago. I should wake him.” With too long a daytime nap, the baby would be difficult to lull to sleep later that evening notwithstanding any of the growing list of tactics Julian had lately employed for accomplishing the task.</p><p>When Julian returned from the exam room (that had now served as a semi-permanent private nursery for several months), carrying a baby who was limp and sullen with grogginess, the Major was fidgeting. </p><p>“May I... hold him?” Kira asked. She looked, well, not quite afraid. Certainly unenthusiastic. But she was already holding out her arms.</p><p>“Oh! Of course.” Julian’s eyebrows had taken flight and seemed determined to leave his face. He blinked and carefully rearranged his expression away from surprise. “I have to warn you, he’s often grumpy after a nap. Watch your fingers.”</p><p>“Luckily for you, I have a <em> lot </em> of experience with grumpy Cardassians.” Tolan tensed and made a low noise that could only be understood as a complaint as he was passed between warm bodies, but he quickly settled against Kira without so much as a glance at her face, obviously intent on drawing out his snooze while the snoozing was good. <em> Obstinate </em> thing. He <em> would </em> be impossible to resettle later on. “Usually <em> I’m </em> the one causing that grumpiness.” Kira peered down at the baby, and she almost looked satisfied, if not outright pleased. “He seems pretty well adjusted. I’m a complete stranger!”</p><p>“Ah, well, he’s in heavy rotation between sets of arms while I work. I suppose it wouldn’t be <em> too </em> much of a change for him to spend <em> some </em> time in the nursery.”</p><p>“That’s good to hear, Julian,” Kira said. She looked down at the baby again. “Because the alternative would be <em> quite </em> a change.”</p><p>“I guess I need some clarification on what you mean by <em> alternative</em>,” Julian pressed, but deep down, he already knew.</p><p>“Resigning.” <em> Ouch</em>. She was right out with it. “Going where it’s safe for you and safer for him. Earth maybe, or at least a core Federation world. With a smaller practice, you could give him all the attention you think he needs.”</p><p>“And I can’t do that here?” The heat of embarrassment had chilled. There was strain behind his eyes and in his teeth now, the threat of shaking apart from within, a colder sensation.</p><p>But some sacrifices were very classified, above even Kira’s level of clearance. She couldn’t know. Julian subtly worked his jaw to loosen it. He was fine. This was fine. They were in the infirmary, <em> his </em> infirmary. Whatever Kira had to say amounted finally to just <em> words</em>. </p><p>“You’re <em> not </em> doing that here. It’s true—you <em> can’t</em>. Which isn’t to say that it’s the wrong choice to stay, for either of you. You joined Starfleet for a reason.”</p><p>The statement hit him like a slap, when he was already down, too, and a shutdown sequence inside was immediately initiated to circumvent total internal breach. He wouldn’t have a meltdown. He had to control himself. Julian mustered an automatic response: “I joined Starfleet to make a difference. I wanted to serve where I would be most needed.” It sounded true enough to his own ears. He’d said the same thing dozens, maybe a hundred times before. He’d always meant it. He let himself go completely blank inside, sequence complete. “I still feel that conviction.”</p><p>“Then take advantage of the support that’s offered here. I know that Tolan needs you, but <em> you </em> need to fulfil all the duties of your post, not just the ones that allow you to make an attempt at being the perfect father. You’ll never succeed at <em> that</em>.” Julian saw that she was trying to temper the lashing with humor, but he was raw beneath the thin layer of pretended calm he’d pulled up around himself. “You know what it’s like here: We strive for efficiency and effectiveness, <em> never </em> perfection.”</p><p>“This is the worst performance review I’ve ever received in my life,” Julian said, for lack of a kinder response. Kira laughed and then gasped when Tolan whistled sleepily in response. What made all of this even more terrible was how kind Kira was being about it, her warm tone, her sympathetic eyes, her <em> efforts</em>, despite the serious reprimand lurking underneath. The famous battle-hardened hero of the Bajoran resistance was bouncing his adopted Cardassian baby in her arms and patiently spelling out the facts of life. A Mahadeva of his fate, Julian supposed. Destroyer of illusions. Creator of urgency. </p><p>“The Captain didn’t want to be the one to bring this to you. He didn’t think it would be appropriate, considering the choice <em> he </em>’s made, with Jake.” Her smile disappeared. “I don’t think he wants to pressure you either way.”</p><p>But she <em> did </em> want to pressure him, it seemed. The choice would be compelled, and compelled on <em> her </em> schedule, not his.</p><p>“You know...” Julian touched his own chin and squinted. “He’s been here to visit Tolan several times in the past week. But he always ends up just holding him for a while, and we chat, then he tells me what a splendid job I’m doing with him and leaves. It <em> did </em> strike me as a little odd.” He hoped he’d sold it, the obliviousness to it all. <em> Sisko </em> knew what Julian had already sacrificed, and what Tolan meant on that level. Julian was almost completely sure that this was the reason that the Captain hadn’t delivered the ultimatum himself. But perhaps tough love had originally been the Major’s idea, and Sisko, after a time, had felt pressured to back her play. It stung, oh it was mercilessly unfair, but Kira’s judgment in these matters wasn’t easily questioned, even if she was only partly informed. Kira had survived against such terrible odds that she was considered, rightly so, to be an expert on all things do-or-die, the resident Difficult Decision Laureate.</p><p>“It’s a tough call, but someone has to make it. And if you won’t, then I will.” Well, the famed on-the-noseness was finally, irrefutably present. There was very little softness beneath <em> that </em> assertion. “We don’t want to lose you.” Julian let a sharp exhalation escape before he could stop himself, that this was even being <em> considered</em>. Kira’s expression collapsed into plainly unresolved misgivings at his distress. “Julian, <em> I </em> don’t want to lose you. Please, <em> try </em> to understand what I’m telling you. It’s not that I think you could ever really be replaced. But we need your head in the game if you stay. I wouldn’t feel right if you didn’t know that there’s an out if you need it. Not for long, though. The stakes are only getting higher out there.” Kira sighed, tilted her head to peer at Tolan with an interest that was almost affection, and then she offered him back to Julian, who took him eagerly. “I’ve taken you off your normal rotation for the time being. You’ll have a few days here and there while we’re away at the conference. Take some time to make a decision, whatever that time looks like. Just know that, eventually, you can’t just continuously eat the cake.”</p><p>“It’s have your cake and eat—”</p><p>“I don’t care about the idiom, Julian. You get the point.”</p><p>“Oob.” Tolan flashed his teeth and bumped Julian’s chest with his forehead. He would need relieving, and soon.</p><p>“I get the point.”</p><p> </p>
<h3>[Some Days Later]</h3><p>The rest of the senior crew, including Kira, were due back today, likely within the hour, and Julian still hadn’t made a decision.</p><p>That wasn’t entirely true. He <em> had </em> made a decision, the <em> obvious </em> decision, very quickly, before Kira had even left the exam room to report to the <em> Orinoco</em>. It was what he <em> wanted </em> to do, the outcome for which he had already greatly <em> sacrificed</em>, what his instinct wheeled around to point at as a personal true North. </p><p>And then he’d almost just as immediately changed his mind, about everything—what was obvious, why it was so, the value of his own desires when stacked against his fears (all very well-founded), what he had lost compared to what he now stood to lose. The direction of personal true North. </p><p>The baby would fuss in the night, not a human sort of fussing, not <em> wah-wah-wah</em>, but questioning little intonations burbled over the monitoring combadge Julian would carefully angle from the nightstand toward his bed before settling in for what sleep he could hope to nab. On Adigeon Prime, even as his IQ had exploded, there had been a span of time, hard to mark out now exactly, that Julian had been completely mute save for the probing calls he had delivered into the flat darkness of the dead of night: <em> Mum? Dad? Mum? Dad?  </em>His parents had only come for him once testing had indicated stable, successful, sustainable results. Not so, for Tolan. It would never be so, that he would know such loneliness under Julian’s care. The baby needed only to murmur and regardless of the hour, Julian would be up, very awake, striding into the room, there to see to Tolan, to hold him. Julian would be there. He would always be there. It wasn’t up for debate. Not with the Major, not with anyone.</p><p>Julian was still diligently conducting promising research (addressing the ketracel-white problem chief among his recent efforts) and providing very good care to the staff, residents, and passers-by on DS9. He was still saving lives in this microcosm of the outskirts of the quadrant, and Tolan was safe, and Tolan could depend on him to <em> be </em> there, to <em> really </em> be there. </p><p>Julian wasn’t a coward! It was just that any possible threat, and the demands on his time and attention, now immediately impacted a life other than his own, a life that had become more precious to him than many other considerations. Certainly his career, when considered apart from the value of other lives saved, was now numbered among those less precious things. It had come as a surprise to Julian, and it was dizzyingly painful to look at the problem from that angle, weighing this part of his life against that, this success, that failure, this capacity, that lack. Julian Bashir, who, when pushed and pushed and exposed, had pinned the picture of himself entirely to his own pips and practice, was an identity destabilized, perhaps even blown to pieces, following Pentath III. He was reforming, piece by broken piece, around Tolan—that which, that whom, had been salvaged. He hardly felt that he knew himself these days. But he knew he had to do this <em> right</em>. Success was <em> required</em>. Tolan was depending on him. <em> No harm, no harm, no harm</em>.</p><p>Julian assured himself that this could all be worked out to everyone’s mutual satisfaction. Somehow. It had to be. He could figure it out. He was <em> smart </em> enough to <em> figure this out</em>.</p><p>But with a war looming? He’d awoken, a shivering mess in the small hours, from a nightmare (<em>Mum? Dad? Mum? Dad?</em>—and then that Cardassian girl, her eyes, that imprint against the flash of disruptor fire, and his research, and Miles O’Brien laughing at him, but of course it was only a dream, Miles hadn’t laughed, not really, and more disruptor fire, infinite bursts of disruptor fire, firing him awake, sweating, sucking the air), and he had changed his mind yet again. He wasn’t <em> weak</em>! And he wasn’t his <em> parents</em>. And he couldn’t afford to be so afraid. It was his <em> job</em>, his <em> purpose</em>, to be brave, to face the potential for loss, to protect the Federation. He’d sworn an oath. He’d sworn several oaths. He had to handle it. He’d been trained to handle it. It was the <em> conviction </em> that he still felt, beyond fear, beyond what he’d already given up.</p><p>And then he’d barely breathed himself out of a full scale panic attack (the Promenade warping, and Julian was desperately and heavily finding a seat, pressing a warm reassuring hand to the carrier, oh, no, it didn’t hurt, this was fine, he’d be <em> fine</em>). He’d been on his way to the nursery, but had collected himself with a few focused breaths and then beelined instead for Garak’s Clothiers, for the fourth time in as many days, which had forced an internal acknowledgement of the holding pattern from which an easy descent now seemed hopelessly unlikely. Garak, and not the nursery, had turned out to be the only recourse for child minding that Julian’s heightened anxiety could stand while he stole what time he could to consider and reconsider his options. </p><p>He didn’t know why. It was all tangled. His <em> intentions </em> were good. But what his actions reflected needed to be fully examined, dissected.</p><p>Today, Garak had taken the baby with only the briefest murmur of greeting spared for Julian, like it had become <em> routine </em> to hand Tolan off. And Julian was quickly on his way back to his quarters to change.</p><p>Why Garak and not the nursery? And why was Garak allowing this intrusion, fostering this dependence, making himself available at any reasonable hour of the day to take the baby for any reasonable amount of time, usually <em> without </em> reasonable notice from Julian? Julian had returned to the shop some days ago, freshly showered and uniformed, from one of his recent solitary (and thus far unproductive) ‘thinks’ to find Garak showing off a custom creation to a pleased Bajoran client with one hand while giving up the other hand entirely to the doubtful mercies of Tolan’s curious teeth. The day before that, Julian had found Garak stitching quite industriously while Tolan snored even as he was completely upright in the carrier that Julian had taken to leaving behind for Garak’s convenience. </p><p>This… wasn’t the best place to start for figuring anything out. Julian frowned at himself in the mirror as he smoothed his suit jacket and checked his hair. It was pleasant, fond, this reverie, this distraction. But then, any consideration of Garak added hues of such strangeness to the already complicated mess of Julian’s intentions and options. </p><p>So, then, something different but perhaps related: Why couldn’t Tolan be left to soothe himself back to sleep in the familiar environment of his own room? Garak had assured Julian that young Cardassians did not typically nurture any ‘silly mammalian fear of the dark,’ and Garak himself had reported being left to his own devices for what struck Julian as incredible spans of time when he had been as young as Tolan was now. </p><p>Julian had asked for and been granted family quarters. Things were expected to settle. Julian and Tolan were expected to fall into their routine, a routine that Julian would need to implement and maintain. Tough as it may be, the baby would just have to adapt, and quickly. This was what it meant to have landed upon Julian Bashir as a father. <em> Poor chum</em>.</p><p>Julian wondered why he kept deferring and deferring again the opportunity, no, the plainly understood duty, of away missions. This was the bigger issue. There were so many parents on the station, and the situation wasn’t ideal for any of them. Julian wasn’t special in <em> that </em> regard, he knew it. And he knew he couldn’t hide behind it. And yet...</p><p>Consideration, carefully deliberated thought, could only happen reliably in the course of a certain pastime. Some people built models. Other people painted or sculpted. Some swam laps or ran circuits. But Julian needed a holoprogram, and he needed a certain type.</p><p>The well-dressed fellow currently striding confidently down the Promenade toward Quark’s could be an island fortress if he wanted to be, unknowable, impenetrable. His cares, even while he was engaged in quite a dangerous profession, could be counted on one hand, namely: which suit to wear, which weapons to conceal, which drink to order, which man to get, and which girl to kiss. The progression of the narrative was infrequently surprising, and it tied up just enough of Julian’s interest and problem-solving processing power to allow something of a meditative shroud to whisper over the more troubled parts of his mind. The promised eventual result could certainly be called clarity. </p><p>Julian had made the decision to stop chasing a professional tennis career and seriously take up medicine during a holoprogram. During a holoprogram, he had finalized a list of possible mistakes to make on exams that would secure salutatorian status, protect The Big Lie, and preserve his pride (these would of course be the kind of mistakes committed during a momentary misreading or blip of forgetfulness, something in line with the goofy airheadedness he’d affected throughout med school, not anything that could possibly be attributed to a blindspot for necessary medical information, just a dumb oversight, a <em> human </em> mistake). He had talked himself into marrying Palis, and then, some months later, out of marrying her, during holoprograms (neither decision-making process was regretted; both had seemed entirely necessary at the time that they had respectively occurred). When told to carefully consider whether a ‘frontier posting’ would be the best use of his talents, after having applied for and been offered the newly-Federation-controlled Deep Space 9’s open CMO position, Julian had engaged the nearest holosuite for an hour and had come out smiling and resolved.</p><p>It was a good program. Things would fall into place, even if it was at the eleventh hour. Even it followed on three previous play-throughs that had left Julian woefully muddy-headed. He hadn’t given up hope yet. The precedent was too strong, as was Julian’s faith in the process.</p><p>As Agent Bashir clocked Falcon in the reflection on the bottle of Dom Pérignon and turned about to expertly deal the finishing blow with a cork (for the fourth time in as many days), the Julian inside was longing for that remembered resoluteness. Perhaps it would come with foiling Noah’s plans. Again. He could hope that the fourth time would finally be the charm.</p><p>“A lot of kick for a forty-five Dom,” Julian drawled, sinking further into himself. Maybe he’d just neck with Caprice for a while, and that might do it. He could see it now: inspiration would flash between passionate presses of lips and clever dartings of tongue (Caprice had been coded to deliver a proper <em> snog par excellence </em> upon the merest suggestion of a request), and the answers would just come to him. Julian knew it.</p><p>“Thank you, Mister… Mister…?”</p><p>“Bashir,” Julian offered. Sometimes it was someone else’s name. Other times, when he wanted to hear it from renderings as pretty as Caprice, it was his own. “Julian Bashir.” The ease of it inspired self-confidence. All he had to do was gesture, stick out an arm, wrap a capable hand around the back of Caprice’s neck, and she could be his for however long he might need to deliberate. The environment was stimulating, pleasant, and entirely in his control.</p><p>That illusion was shattered by a smattering of polite applause. </p><p>‘Who could that be?’ and ‘Why do I know it’s Garak?’ occurred almost simultaneously as Julian withdrew from that extremely gratifying holo-mouth and angled a furious eye beyond the broken pane of decorative glass and toward the poker table, against which Garak leaned, clad in a tuxedo that had been carefully modified to flatter his generous Cardassian physique.</p><p>“Beebeebeh-papapapah,” Tolan chirped happily in greeting from the carrier strapped to Garak’s chest. The baby was already reaching for Julian and grabbing at the air. Julian sighed through his nose and excused himself from Caprice.</p><p>“Nice tux,” he said, approaching Garak.</p><p>“Thank you.” Garak smiled and nodded very courteously. Oh, he was pleased with himself, wasn’t he?</p><p>“Beeb?”</p><p>Julian pointedly released all twinges of tension from his face before he turned his gaze to Tolan. The baby was presented in a darling miniature version of a formal suit, albeit made from much more forgiving and flexible fabric than was typical. He had somehow pulled his tiny bowtie free from its clasp and was merrily chewing on it. </p><p>“Nice tux,” Julian repeated, and this time he couldn’t help but to laugh a little, delighted despite himself. It was a cute joke. He was still smiling when he tilted his face back up to address Garak. It was time for the joke to end. “Now, both of you, get <em> out</em>.”</p><p>“But, Doctor, we’ve only <em> just </em> arrived!” Garak’s voice was pitched high, and his complaint sounded as surprised as it was dismayed, as if he’d been <em> invited</em>. As if Julian was being <em> unreasonable</em>. How <em> absurd</em>!</p><p>Julian shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned in to deliver what he hoped would prove a successfully discouraging talking-to, although he’d never had much luck guilting Garak into or out of anything. “Breaking into a holosuite during someone’s program is not only rude, it’s illegal. You’re certainly not setting a good example for my son, making him an accessory to a crime at such a tender age. I should call Odo and have you arrested!” He was emphatic on this last point but kept his volume just below an outright yell or an uncontrolled guffaw (he wasn’t sure if he was more annoyed or amused now). It wouldn’t do to cause little Tolan any distress, whatever the case.</p><p>“What an <em> extreme </em> reaction that would be. Whoever would see to Tolan’s needs, I wonder?” Garak replied, an easy parry. The creeping, invisible tendrils of chagrin slid over the hairs on the back of Julian’s neck. But he had nothing to be ashamed of, after all! It was <em> Garak </em> who had disrupted his private time and thrown a wrench into his thought process. </p><p>“There’s a nursery, you know,” Julian seethed. He had chosen anger. Easier to direct when faced with absurdity. And safer too, when that absurdity’s source was one Elim Garak.</p><p>“I’m well aware of that, Doctor.” No, <em> no </em> , that couldn’t have been a <em> wink </em> just then! Surely it had been a trick of the light. Garak glanced around innocently now, smiling with interest. “You must be <em> very </em> embarrassed by this program.”</p><p>Feeling a flail coming on, Julian flicked his jacket back, then straightened his arms and clenched his fists on his thighs. “I’m <em> not </em> embarrassed!” He lifted one hand, very controlled, and he hoped, very convincingly. “I’m <em> annoyed </em> that you have intruded into my privacy!” He stepped away from Garak then. The program timing had been undermined by the interruption, and the narrative would move forward, soon to pull Caprice out of the scene. If Julian wanted to continue his <em> deliberations </em> in private along previously considered lines, then he would need to restart the program. <em> Annoying</em>, ind—</p><p>“<em>Oh, </em> privacy, <em> indeed</em>!” Garak scoffed behind him. “I think it goes far deeper than <em> that</em>, Doctor.” There would be no escape. Julian was now going to be held captive, willing or not, to one of Garak’s famous character insights, he was sure. Garak would not be wished or, it seemed, willed away unsatisfied. Julian stopped and turned to face him and the music. “Ever since you’ve received this new program, you’ve spent virtually every free hour in the holosuite… but you haven’t told anyone what the program is.”</p><p>Judging by Garak’s attire, and Tolan’s sweet matching ensemble, <em> somebody </em> clearly <em> had </em> told Garak what the program was. Or he had found out for himself, days ago. Some-<em>dubious</em>-how.</p><p>“Am I supposed to?” Julian was sullen, resigned. This was Garak at his most difficult to handle—flagrantly out of line, and playing that spectacular mixed hand of coyness, curiosity, and abjectly unbelievable cluelessness. But Julian was in his pocket, too. Garak had been minding Tolan regularly these past several days so that Julian could indulge in the requisite ‘holo-thinks’.</p><p>“No, no, no,” Garak insisted, and he put up his hands in a comically earnest forestalling gesture. Julian knew better than to read it as any kind of surrender.</p><p>“Beebeebeeee!” Tolan giggled, waving his arms in pleased mimicry.</p><p>“You’re such a…” Garak smiled—Was it supposed to be <em>kind</em>? It was... terrifying! It was <em>something</em>!—and extended one of his hands even further to touch Julian’s arm. Hyper-awareness of the contact made Julian imagine the warmth of it through layers of stiff fabric. To actually feel such warmth beyond the pressure would, of course, be impossible. He made an effort not to acknowledge much less respond to the touch at all. “...forgive me…” <em>Oh, no</em>. Julian was caught in a moment of morbid fascination, yearning but unable to look away. <em>Such a</em> <em>what?</em> <em>I’m such a</em> <b><em>what</em></b>? “...a <em>talkative</em> man…” <em>Oh. That.</em> “...and it’s <em>so</em> unusual for you to have secrets.” The addition of <em>Well, anymore, that is,</em> was left hanging in the air between them, but Garak communicated that just fine with a significant widening of his eyes and insinuating tilt of his head. <em>Damn him</em>.</p><p>“I must have reacquainted myself with the habit because of <em> you </em> .” There was no time to reflect on whether the comment on his verbosity had been intended as an insult, and <em> certainly </em> no time to <em> feel hurt </em> by it if that was so. Julian had had his response at the ready. He had shifted into full sparring mode, automatically, as was their way, woefully against his better judgment. He reached to ruffle Tolan’s hair, any excuse to avoid Garak’s eyes without seeming like he was giving in. “<em>Mister </em> Garak, you’re a terrible influence on us <em> both</em>. Now, if you’ll please excuse me...”</p><p>Garak followed Julian in a crunching shuffle back over the broken glass on the floor. “Is this <em> fantasy </em> of yours truly revealing of your inner psyche?”</p><p>“<em>What</em>?”</p><p>A thousand implications battered up against Julian’s psyche now, vying for supremacy. Had Garak just directly asked him if mindlessly snogging the light-constructed facsimile of a beautiful woman in a red dress was reflective of Julian’s core <em> being </em> ? And what exactly did <em> that </em> question mean, coming from <em> Garak </em> ? <em> No reason to be embarrassed</em>, an increasingly smaller voice of reason insisted from the back of his mind. <em> I contain multitudes</em>, it added indignantly, and even Julian had to admit, unhelpfully, pulling on some half-remembered literary reference.</p><p>Garak stepped in close, very close, and he wasn’t done <em> talking</em>. Tolan was almost pressed between them. Julian straightened, hands seeking out the back of his own jacket again, something to pull on, something to hold onto. <em> No </em> flailing. It was absolutely <em> not </em> allowed. What he did allow was an intrusive thought (that he could lean in just a little and shock Garak into silence with a kiss) to flitter ludicrously across his mind and pass. “Is that why you’re so protective? Are you afraid I’ll find out some… humiliating secrets of the <em> real </em> Julian Bashir?”</p><p><em> Humiliating</em>. An interesting choice, but a stretch, a deceased horse immune to the pain of any further direct blows. Julian could see no cause for its use except to get a rise out of him. He wouldn’t give it.</p><p>“This is a <em> fantasy</em>,” he insisted, and he made a great show of looking pained at having to spell it out. If Garak was going to silently screech <em> You’re embarrassed! You’re embarrassed! You’re embarrassed! </em> with his stupid smirk and his stupid laughing eyes and his stupid, stupid head tilt <em> beyond </em> his stupid words, well! Julian had no qualms with letting him know: <em> You’re stupid! You’re stupid! You’re stupid! </em> in any way he could manage. So he leaned to aggress into their shared space. He and Garak were nearly breathing each other’s air now. But Garak seemed unruffled by the latent threat of that thrilling, silly thought that was occurring again. <em> So </em> close. They had never been <em> so </em> close. All it would take would be just a slight nod, and Julian could bring his hands up to grab that handsome ridged neck on both sides, so Garak would be unable to turn away, to escape. <em> That </em> would shut him up. Oh, <em> silly</em>, silly little rattling thought! <em> Go away</em>, the tiny voice inside willed weakly. It was a good thing that psychic empathy was <em> not </em> a Cardassian trait. </p><p>Tolan reached out only a few scant centimeters and gave Julian’s chest a sound <em> thwack</em>, which eased the tension of the moment a little, and Julian only startled slightly, then resettled an open glare on Garak. “I’d prefer not to subject Tolan to some of the more adult themes of this particular program, but beyond that, I’ve got <em> nothing </em> to hide.” </p><p>Garak suddenly looked delighted. “Well, if you’ve nothing to hide, then why not let us stay?”</p><p>“Oob!” Tolan offered, almost as if he was seconding a motion. The treacherous little thing had taken Garak’s side, the <em> sitter</em>’s side. <em> You really </em> <b> <em>can’t</em> </b> <em> turn your back on them</em>.</p><p>Wounded and outgunned, Julian indulged in a resentful scowl for a moment before delivering his answer, the answer that had been foregone since Garak had broken into the program, or perhaps since Garak had made the decision to do so: “All right.” <em> All right</em>, in lieu of the kiss that would have won Julian the argument and swallowed up that self-satisfied smirk on Garak’s face. “I’ll have to adjust the parameters of the narrative a little.”</p><p>“Ah!” Garak tipped his head back, clearly enjoying the victory. And his smile was broad and fetching, and Julian noticed how fetching it was and was thrilled and disappointed with himself for having noticed. <em> Damn him! Damn him! </em> But Julian could breathe again, at least. Garak adjusted the carrier, smiling down at Tolan. “Hmm, not <em> too </em> humiliating to show me, but I suppose your father isn’t prepared to reveal his true nature to <em> you</em>.”</p><p>Julian scoffed, stung for the nth time in minutes. “Look, I have to be at work in two hours. And I’d like to enjoy myself. So keep quiet”—He leveled a stern look first at Garak and then at Tolan—“and <em> don’t </em> rain on my parade.”</p><p>“Parade?” Garak sounded intrigued, and still far too smugly pleased for Julian’s liking. “You’ll enjoy that, I think.” He was speaking to Tolan.</p><p>“Augh! Never<em> mind</em>.” Julian’s eyes fluttered closed as if that would trap yet another rising swell of frustration in his body and not let any of it escape. He wasn’t currently given to any sensible means to resolve it, he knew; he was in <em> hot </em> water, here. And he didn’t have <em> time </em> for this! How would he ever achieve any sort of clarity with such compounded <em> distraction</em>?</p><p>“Don’t worry, Doctor.” Julian was already <em> well beyond </em> worried. “We can be <em> very </em> discreet. You’ll <em> barely </em> know we’re here.”</p><p>“Peeb-pibble-beeb,” Tolan chattered. He was clearly in one of his more talkative moods, probably inspired by Garak. </p><p>“Oh, good,” Julian sighed. It <em> wasn’t </em> good. Exciting, definitely, but <em> not </em> good.</p><p>“If I <em> may </em> make one observation…”</p><p>“<em>Garak</em>.” </p><p>“I only want to point out that your <em> lovely </em> companion is leaving.” Garak pointed past Julian with a serene smile that made Julian want to… well, to do <em> something</em>. <em> Again with this! </em> He had to get his mind <em> off </em> this track. <em> Later, I’ll worry about it later</em>. “Odd. She seemed so interested in your advances just a moment ago. I wonder what scared her away.”</p><p>Of course, Caprice hadn’t been <em> scared </em> away. The narrative had simply progressed without the feedback of Julian’s continued interaction with the character. And Garak knew that. Had to. And Garak had to know that he was the <em> reason </em> for that. And Julian wouldn’t give him even more reason to be so pleased about it. “It’s just as well, I suppose.” Julian pushed another long, steadying breath out and shook his head, biting his lip to repress the rueful smile that was threatening. “I can see I’m going to regret this.” He made for the adjacent room, and felt every bit like he’d wilted into a little waving white flag. Not very debonair. An island fortress no longer.</p><p>Garak fell into step beside him. Tolan whistled and bounced a little in the carrier. Julian tried and failed to steel himself. “Don’t worry, Doctor. We’re going to have a wonderful time! After all, what could possibly go wrong?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Julian’s career hangs in the balance, and I guess he felt the best way to deal with that pressure was to go make out with a holoprojection about it (as one does). I wonder what clarity this particular adventure has in store for him now that Garak has messed with his plans! Tune in next week for continuing adventures in accidental baby acquisition!</p><p>C is for Comment! OMNOMNOMNOMNOM! (As always, I'm super thirst to hear from y'all!)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>In this canon-divergent AU, the main events of <em>Dr. Bashir, I Presume</em> take place much earlier in the chronology of the series, during the year 2371. The main plot arc of this work takes place a year later, in 2372.</p><p>Phew! Order UP! Accidentally acquired baby AU OMB. Wait. NOBODY ordered this? Too bad, it’s what’s for dinner!! Eat your vegetables!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3>[Stardate 49301.2, Infirmary, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>Tolan’s eyes were round, his pupils pinned; the ridges along the little neck flared. His mouth was open in a small ‘o’, but he made no sound, didn’t audibly breathe. And he was very still in Ben Sisko’s arms.</p><p>“I’d better take him back,” Julian said softly, carefully. The concern on Sisko’s face was vivid, in the narrowed eyes, the drooping corners of his mouth. The baby gasped a greedy choke of the air then <em> howled </em> a warbling wordless call as Julian took him, and he shuddered and nosed into Julian’s dress shirt as if he might burrow into his chest and find cover within the rib cage.</p><p>“Was he hurt?” Sisko asked.</p><p>“No,” Julian answered. He ducked his head and held tight, breathing in the pleasant spicy aroma of the baby’s hair. And then, after a moment just holding and breathing, he raised his eyebrows to Garak, who was seated on an adjacent biobed calmly awaiting treatment. Garak reached without any verbal prompting to gingerly pluck the clingy, desperately tense Cardassian baby from Julian’s arms. There was a job to be done. Julian tugged his bowtie loose and leaned in to apply mending regeneration to the hole from the bullet that had mangled part of a ridge but had thankfully not penetrated Garak’s neck.</p><p>“Tolan’s behaviors have not yet been… adequately socialized,” Garak offered haltingly in explanation; the treatment, Julian knew, had to sting something <em> awful</em>. He worked as quickly as he could. “He’s displaying instinctive physiological responses to—<em>Ah! </em> A little <em> gentler </em> if you please, Doctor—fear.”</p><p>Tolan whined and a tiny hand shot up to grasp at the bottom edge of the regenerator. Julian fumbled and gasped and stepped back as Garak tried to soothe the baby, making a great show of seeming unhurt and thrilled to be here in the infirmary that Julian knew that he loathed. When Tolan finally, reluctantly resettled, Garak gave a subtle nod to Julian, who leaned in again to return to his work on the neck wound with a short sigh.</p><p>“Why is he afraid of me?” The Captain had taken a mindful few steps back, and if he was distressed that he had given the baby a fright, it was buried now beneath the professional veneer that commanded a debriefing.</p><p>“Well, he’s afraid of Dr. Noah, not you” Julian clarified. “Noah’s the villain in the holoprogram I was playing when the <em> Orinoco </em> exploded. Your pattern was overlaid on his character.”</p><p>“It doesn’t seem like that program is suitable for one so young,” Sisko remarked, but his tone was carefully neutral, inviting correction or further information, or preferably, it seemed, both.</p><p>“It’s not,” Julian replied, and he wasn’t able to fully disguise his sullenness. He stepped back with a cursory examination of Garak’s neck and a brief scowl, and then received a much calmer Tolan back into his arms. Julian patted and rubbed his little back in small circles, rocking slowly from heel to heel, considering. Garak was looking at him, hands folded in his lap, calmly waiting, it seemed to Julian, to see if this would be the moment that Julian would get him done for his crimes. It would, it occurred to Julian, be the opportune moment to do so if ever there was one. “I made adjustments that I thought would make the program <em> less </em> unsuitable,” he said instead, “but not all of them took because of the surge when the patterns were loaded—the same one that knocked out the safety protocols. Dr. Noah turned out to still be every bit Dr. Noah, quite a worthy adversary, and with the safeties off, all the weapons that ought to have been present as mere sound effects suddenly became capably lethal.”</p><p>“Hence Mister Garak’s injury.”</p><p>“Yes,” Julian supplied, but he stopped there, silently willing the Captain to press no further. He was forced to acknowledge that he had just entered into an unspoken <em> I won’t tell if you don’t </em> pact with the sole aim of keeping a guilty party from deserved punishment. Julian felt his gaze slide almost against his will again to Garak, who was smiling very faintly now, expression tranquil but for the eyes, which sparkled with rapt attention and a touch of something else, something more akin to pride or satisfaction. It made Julian wonder, and not for the first time, what dark hopes Garak nurtured for him.</p><p>“You’re to be commended for your quick thinking, Doctor Bashir. Quite an accomplishment to have preserved everyone’s lives under the circumstances. But let’s revisit the sequence of events. I want to be entirely clear on what happened,” Sisko said. It hit Julian’s ears as conversational, but certainly it was an order. “You arrive with your son and Mister Garak to Holosuite Three, determined to enjoy a child-proofed version of a spy thriller.” Well, the Captain had said it, not Julian. “And then what?”</p><p> </p><h3>[Stardate 49300.7, “Agent Bashir’s Kowloon Flat,” Holosuite 3, Quark’s, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>The baby stiffened and stretched up in the habitual motion that would ease his removal from the carrier. Julian gave a laughing groan for show as he lifted Tolan into his arms. And Garak, free of the slight weight, rolled his shoulders, shrugged off his jacket, and peered around the Kowloon flat with interest flavored by an overt, squinting distaste.</p><p>“Computer, redefine narrative parameters for a child’s participation in this program. Let’s do what we can to make the story a little more family friendly, yes?” The computer chirped and then gave an acknowledgement that was unusually delayed.</p><p>“Odd,” Garak remarked, still glancing about and sniffing mild disgust at the furnishings.</p><p>“I imagine it was quite an ask,” Julian chuckled and gave Tolan’s forehead an affectionate nudge. “This program certainly wasn’t designed with little ones in mind.”</p><p>“Design it yourself, did you?” Garak placed his jacket and the carrier over the high back of a bar chair. Julian picked out judgment and exasperated fondness in Garak’s tight smile, and he was suddenly amused at the idea that the interior decorating was perhaps what Garak might think would be the most embarrassing thing about this program for Julian. </p><p>Julian shook his head and swayed on his feet a little to dissuade the baby from squirming. “The decor is appropriate for the period—1964.”</p><p>“And we are now in, what did you call this place, <em> Kowloon</em>? Am I pronouncing that correctly?”</p><p>“Yes, at least as well I can—it’s more of ah, ehrm, <em> gau-lung </em> in Cantonese, although I’ve never quite gotten it down. It’s part of Hong Kong.”</p><p>“And the nightclub was in Paris, which, if I remember correctly, was on the other side of the planet.”</p><p>“Very good!” Julian smiled. Regardless of Garak’s motives for the interruption, he’d done some kind of homework. That Garak’s geographical knowledge of Earth could be a holdover from previous assignments in a specific line of work occurred to Julian, but he tried to put it out of his mind. “You’re putting me to shame. I don’t think I’d be able to point out Lakarian City on a globe of Prime if my life depended on it. I’ll have to work on that.” Tolan (who seemed to believe that any caressing praise coming out of Julian’s mouth was meant for him) chattered and reached up to pat Julian’s chin. Julian gave the exploring fingers a mock nibble, then wiggled an eyebrow in the general direction of the bar. “Care for a drink?”</p><p>“Oh, no, thank you.” Garak recoiled from the bar as if stung by even the prospect of a beverage and moved toward the window on the opposite side of the room presumably to take in the view. “I’m afraid I lack the suspension of disbelief required to take any enjoyment from synthetic intoxicants.”</p><p>Or, Julian was willing to wager, <em> most </em> intoxicants, at least since the removal of the implant against which all other forms of fucked-up-edness most certainly paled in comparison. But it wasn’t Julian’s place to ask after <em> that</em>—Garak had made that <em> quite </em> clear by the speed with which he’d swept the whole ordeal under the rug—and this certainly wasn’t the context for following medical lines of inquiry. Julian was curious, of course. But he made it a point not to be <em> nosy</em>, especially when it came to Garak, and especially during off-hours. Garak had always been a reluctant patient, even within the controlled domain of the infirmary.  “Well, take him back for a moment, then, and I’ll help myself.” </p><p>Garak accepted Tolan back and held him braced up with one arm. After a time, he began pointing out the window with his free hand and speaking to the baby in a hushed murmur that Julian couldn’t quite make out from the bar. Julian only half paid attention to mixing his drink, suddenly caught up in this particular sensory experience that heralded the formation of a meaningful memory: How <em> alien </em> they both looked, Garak and Tolan, there against the glass, how out of place even in their period-appropriate attire, perhaps in part <em> because </em> of the way they were dressed. Garak in his more typical darkly ornate fashions and the baby in his smart Cardassian jumpers were familiar and approachable, and on the one hand at least, beloved to Julian, but to see them both dressed in the <em> human </em> way exaggerated their <em> non</em>-humanness. And they were two of a kind, there, contrasted against the foreign backdrop of historic Kowloon at night.</p><p>And then, at just that moment, of course it hit Julian like a plain sack full of—surprise!—twenty bars of latinum that, were he to resign from Starfleet and open a practice on a core world, he’d be taking Tolan away from Garak, and, more importantly, robbing his son, perhaps permanently, of the only other Cardassian in his life. </p><p>Panic squeezed Julian’s guts, and they gurgled unpleasantly, and he hardly noticed when the martini he’d been pouring from the shaker overflowed its glass. It was such a major variable, why was it just <em> now </em> coming to him? <em> Foolish</em>. He bit back a curse and fumbled about the bar for a towel, which he quickly applied when found to the mess he hoped to conceal from Garak’s observant eyes. And what would Julian even <em> say </em> to him, if it did turn out to be in Tolan’s best interest to leave? <em> Thanks for all the help, and all the advice. I know I said I wanted to raise Tolan as the Cardassian he is, but present circumstances—No</em>. Or perhaps, <em> This is a little unorthodox, Garak, but you’re such a swell nanny. Might I persuade you to give up your tailoring business, or your spy business, or whatever it is your business actually is, and accompany me to—Absolutely </em> <b> <em>not</em></b><em>! </em></p><p>The mechanical whirr of the front entrance offered reprieve and revealed Mona Luvsitt, impeccably dressed, of course, albeit much more conservatively than during previous play-throughs. She entered the suite carrying a very large briefcase that Julian knew contained a very large gun. Garak turned from the window and exchanged an amused glance with Tolan, who chirruped and stuck out a fist by way of greeting. Julian moved from behind the bar to intercept Mona.</p><p>“Mister Bashir, I didn’t expect you home so soon.” She was addressing Julian but expressing polite interest in the unexpected visitors with a few coy glances their way.</p><p>“I decided to leave Paris a little early,” Julian explained. <em> I decided to leave Paris</em>. <em> I decided to leave Caprice and her sweet warm lips</em>. <em> Because I’m an idiot and a pushover</em>. <em> And, damnit, I can’t even see your tits in that shirt, Mona</em>. <em> How disappointing</em>. Julian unglued his eyes from the very same hidden tits and turned to make the proper introductions. “Allow me to introduce my friend, Mister Garak, and”—He fiddled, but only briefly, halfway to a laugh at the absurdity of this situation, to be introducing Mona-sodding-Luvsitt of all people to—“my son, Tolan.” The holo-woman offered the baby a breathtakingly warm smile, absolutely devoid of the sensual flair of her typical manner with Julian. The computer had apparently done its work well. “Garak, this is my personal valet, Mona Luvsitt.” Julian carried off the name without any accompanying wince of embarrassment, and Garak, thankfully, played along, briefly taking Mona’s offered hand in greeting with the limb that wasn’t occupied with an increasingly squirmy baby.</p><p>“Would you like me to put this away?” Mona hefted the case and Julian gave permission. Some days ago, he’d gotten no further than this, Mona bending over just so to put the gun away. Hm.</p><p>“Is she your valet or your personal assassin?” came the ribbing astonishment when Garak followed Mona to the closet and took notice of the impressive weapons panel concealed there. The baby tweedled an echoing interest. “And didn’t you <em> just </em> adjust the narrative parameters? That’s a frightful number of dangerous collectibles to keep around a child, <em> Mister </em> Bashir.”</p><p>Julian rolled his eyes. “Mona <em> is </em> a <em> valet</em>, <em> Mister </em> Garak, although she is <em> very </em> capable. Those weapons are well out of reach, at least for now. Cheers.” Julian pulled the pistol from its concealed holster beneath his jacket, carefully pointing it at the ground while he sipped the drink in his other hand. “I think if I shot this thing right now, the only thing that would come out is a little flag that has <em> Bang! </em> written on it.”</p><p>“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Mona asked. The question, typically phrased as an open invitation for further debauchery, sounded clipped and professional out of this Mona-rated-for-general-audiences. With one more forlorn, lingering look at her modestly clothed bosom, Julian holstered his gun and dismissed Mona. He offered Garak a sheepish smile and made for the sofa. He had fucked Mona on that sofa. He had fucked Mona all over this suite. Allowing Garak to strongarm him into a little family fun in this most masturbatory meditation program had been a <em> mistake</em>, guns or no guns.  </p><p>“I take it your character is some kind of rich dilettante with a fascination for women and weapons.” Garak wasn’t so terribly far off, except that it was mere chance that the program had generated Mona Luvsitt in the role of multi-talented valet this go-around rather than Phil Accio, who was just as statistically likely to appear without previously specified preference (and just as talented—Julian had fucked Phil on the sofa a number of times as well).</p><p>Julian sat heavily with a huff. It was time for the ultimate humiliation. “Actually, my character is far more disreputable.” He didn’t look up at Garak. “I’m a spy.”</p><p> </p><h3>[Stardate 49301.2, Infirmary, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>“If you require no further treatment, Mister Garak, then I think I will take the rest of Doctor Bashir’s report in private.”</p><p>“I’m mildly concussed, I’m afraid,” Garak lied smoothly to the Captain, and he couldn’t have been any more infuriating about it had he batted his eyelashes at him. Julian opened his mouth to protest, but then Garak continued: “You’re welcome to go elsewhere for the moment, although I <em> do </em> feel a <em> touch </em> nauseous just now.” He swung his feet up and stretched out on the biobed. “Perhaps I’d better lie down, just for a short spell.” He closed his eyes and smiled serenely. “You oughtn’t go too far away, Doctor. I could require further medical attention at any moment. Concussions can just be so <em> tricky</em>. Fine one moment, and then certainly not the next.”</p><p>“Indeed.” Julian rolled his eyes and tried to hold onto the conviction that the smile that was coming unbidden to his face was just reflective of shot nerves. “Garak <em> was </em> there the whole time, Captain. It’s <em> possible </em> that he <em> could </em> have useful insight that I lack. Also, I was rather considering putting old chum here down for a rest in the next room. He’s had quite a day.” The baby stirred with a grunt at the word ‘chum’ but the soft snoring muffled against Julian’s shirt picked back up in seconds.</p><p>Sisko nodded. Julian took the baby into the adjacent room for sleep and replicated himself a new uniform while he was at it, emerging looking, he hoped, slightly less ruffled than he felt. Garak seemed to have given up the pretense of concussion-induced nausea and was sitting up again, alert and interested.</p><p>“Now, where were we, gentlemen?” Sisko asked, leaning back against an empty biobed. “When did you notice that something had gone wrong?”</p><p>Julian and Garak shared a knowing look.</p><p>“Kira,” Julian said.</p><p>“The Major, yes,” Garak echoed.</p><p> </p><h3>[Stardate 49300.8, “Agent Bashir’s Kowloon Flat,” Holosuite 3, Quark’s, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System ]</h3><p>If Garak had seemed startlingly out of place in a tuxedo, now he looked every bit the definitive sore thumb in the retro checkered taupe of the jacket and slacks, although the brick red of the tight-fitting turtleneck beneath was flattering to his gray complexion and the cool blue of his irises (Julian resolved immediately <em> not </em> to tell him so much). </p><p>The program hadn’t anticipated the need for any baby-sized casual vintage attire, so Julian had applied himself to negotiating the miniature, much-abused bowtie from Tolan’s surprisingly tight grasp and setting it aside. Such was the only change to be afforded him.</p><p>“Isn’t this a rather ostentatious life for a spy?”</p><p>Tolan keened a pathetic complaint, reaching for his newest prized possession, the discarded bowtie, as Julian stood from the sofa and ambled toward Garak, tutting and shushing the baby. Julian was trying to be a good sport about the teasing, really, he was, but he felt an echoing pathetic complaint rising in his own throat. The program was his own shiny new toy, and Garak had pulled it out from between his teeth. Ostentatious, indeed. Here he was with a fussy baby and a nosy Cardassian operative to contend with; the fantasy had long been shattered. </p><p>“It’s all part of my cover,” Julian sighed finally, calling on stores of patience that had been dwindling since Garak had first stepped his meddling foot into this program. “I’m <em> posing </em> as a wealthy jet-setter, so I have to act like one.”</p><p>“<em>Jet. Setter.</em>” Careful pronunciation, the Standard smooth and unaccented but labored nonetheless on Garak’s tongue. It at least gave Julian the opportunity to dust off his considerable knowledge of the aerial feats of the twentieth century.</p><p>“People of this era used to travel in—”</p><p>
  <em> Thud. </em>
</p><p>The noise had come from the wall. Julian balanced Tolan on his hip and reached for the murphy switch in the coffee table. “My gun,” he hissed, jerking his head at Garak. </p><p>“The one with the <em> Bang! </em> flag?” Garak asked incredulously, but didn’t hesitate, retrieving the weapon from its holster with nimble, practiced fingers. He had apparently noted precisely where Julian kept it on his person earlier. Julian straightened with a gulp and cupped a protective hand around Tolan’s head.</p><p>Garak may have looked all the more exotically ridged and xenologically out of place in historical human clothing, but the bed that rotated out from the wall revealed Major Kira, who was absolutely <em> ravishing</em>, Julian had to admit, in the little nothing slip of pink that clung to her figure. Julian gulped again.</p><p>“Julian. I must have fallen asleep.” The Russian accent was bad, but no worse than that of the default characterization—quite the accomplishment for a busy Bajoran officer who surely had better things to do with her time than tackle the parlance of a Bond-era femme fatale.</p><p>Garak lowered the gun and then smoothly tugged aside Julian’s jacket to re-holster it without a word.</p><p>And now Tolan was shimmying unhappily, so Julian lowered the protecting hand and let him look. He immediately perked up, cooing fondly when he spied the site of a recent lovely nap, Kira’s welcoming arms.</p><p><em> Well</em>.</p><p>“Very funny,” Julian said to Garak. He was being ambushed again for the second time in days. Was this some sort of extended intervention? Hadn’t Kira directed him to spend his time thinking in whatever manner worked best for him? “Who else did you invite along with you today?” He didn’t know where to direct the accusation, whipping his head between Kira and Garak.</p><p>Garak stiffened, wide-eyed and obnoxiously affronted. “Well, this wasn’t <em> my </em> idea! Major!” He gestured to Kira seemingly for help and clarification. So <em> rich </em>. It wasn’t like them to be in cahoots, but there was really no other reasonable explanation that was occurring to Julian just now.</p><p>“Colonel, actually. Colonel Anastasia Komananov, KGB.” Kira rolled from her prone position and crawled toward Julian in a lascivious prowl that was all too reminiscent of the holo-character she was purported to represent. There were layers to the distractions offered by this program. Colonel Komananov had often been quickly seduced, but she had always made her entrance through the front door and typically downed half a drink first, for appearance’s sake. The bed had never come <em> equipped </em> with the sometime-enemy sometime-paramour that Julian was narratively encouraged to, well, <em> bed</em>. “Oh, Julian.” Kira stood now, took Julian’s face in her hands. He was too stunned to move. Tolan too had gone silent and still in his arms. “I never thought I’d see you alive again, not after you fell out of that dirigible over Iceland.”</p><p>“I had a parachute,” Julian replied, fishing. Just how much did the members of the senior crew <em> know </em> about his most recent holosuite engagements? They had been at a <em> conference</em>, for heaven’s sake! “There was a submarine there waiting for me.” Kira didn’t react except to caress his face in a way that was very familiar, and very, very distracting. “Have you been downloading my holosuite program?” It was meant as an accusation, but Julian couldn’t summon the voice to give it teeth.</p><p>“Oh, Julian. You are not <em> well</em>.” The accent was getting worse. “Let’s lie down.”</p><p>Julian stepped back with an astonished exhalation, shielding Tolan’s head again. <em> This</em>. This would <em> not </em> do, well out of bounds from narrative adjustments recently made for little eyes and ears.</p><p>“I must say, Major Kira’s <em>certainly</em> <em>throwing</em> herself into the role, Doctor,” the horrible peanut gallery that was Garak quipped.</p><p>“Nerys, <em> please</em>.” Julian was desperately confused. Major Kira had never been one for practical jokes, despite her occasional tactlessness. This was a bridge too far.</p><p>“Who <em> is </em> this Major Nerys Kira?”</p><p>“<em>Kira </em> Nerys, actually,” Julian corrected. It was unheard of for a Bajoran to <em> invite </em> a switch of the given and matronymic names in address, even in jest. It was a horrible insult that had famously been ignorantly enacted and then painstakingly <em> handled </em> with the clumsy diplomacy of first and second contact.</p><p>“Perhaps this isn’t Major Kira after all,” Garak ventured.</p><p>Julian squinted at her, as if he might discern with the naked eye a holo-fabrication from the genuine article. He couldn’t, but he was beginning to think that Garak was right.</p><p> </p><h3>[Stardate 49301.2, Infirmary, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>“—and then I commed Ops because the computer had stopped complying with even basic commands.” Julian was pacing between biobeds as he recounted the adventure. “That’s when we put together what had happened. And it was such a mixed bag! The plot of the story typically demands a choice between two, uh…” Julian stopped, tittered uncertainly, rubbed the back of his neck, and decided he would <em> not </em> use the phrase ‘damsel in distress,’ “...attractive targets for rescue. The one who isn’t rescued usually dies.” He began pacing again. “So, we had Kira on the one hand, Dax on the other, and we were pitted against Falcon and Duchamps—Miles and Worf, respectively—and, of course, yourself, Sir, in the role of ultimate supervillain Noah. Garak and I, uh, well, we made the decision to keep playing once we realized that a deletion of these characters’ patterns in the current cycle of play could prove fatal to any of you.”</p><p>The Captain crossed his arms. “I mean no offense, Mister Garak, but I have to say that I’m a little surprised that you allowed yourself to get roped into such a dangerous mission.”</p><p>Garak chuckled, flashed his teeth briefly at the Captain. The Captain had to know as well as Julian did that it would take far more than an insinuation of self-preservation for Garak to feel insulted. “Well, who am I to question Julian Bashir, secret agent?”</p><p>“Garak should be commended too, Sir,” Julian blurted. He cleared his throat to loosen up the vocal chords a bit, to prevent any embarrassing cracking. “I wouldn’t have been able to stall for enough time to facilitate the rescue beam-out and pattern reintegration were it not for him.”</p><p>“Oh, nonsense,” Garak demurred with a dismissive little wave of his hand. “I was about as helpful as Tolan.” He nodded to Sisko. “I can assure you, Captain Sisko, that all heroics were performed by your officer and your officer alone.”</p><p>“If you’re quite finished talking each other up,” Sisko said with a small smirk, “I am curious about how Tolan came into contact with this notorious Noah character.” </p><p> </p><h3>[Stardate 49300.9, “Dr. Noah’s Everest Lair,” Holosuite 3, Quark’s, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>The first thing Julian became aware of was the crackle of the fire, and then Not-Kira said something in actual Russian. Julian opened his eyes to find himself on a sofa with Garak leaning heavily and unconsciously against him. On an additional sofa opposite them, Ana was clutching her forehead and groaning.</p><p>“Where are we?” Julian rasped. He’d never been to this location. But then, defeating Noah had never really been the primary point of engaging this program. Out of the impressive floor-to-ceiling windows and through the lashes of heavy eyelids, Julian could make out mountains. </p><p>Something was wrong. Or… missing...</p><p>Terror needled its way in through the sternum and he suddenly jerked fully awake. “Garak!” He shook Garak. Julian was grabbed by the throat before Garak even managed to open his eyes. Then, recognition dawning, they released one another with shaking hands, breathing hard. “Where’s Tolan?” Garak blinked owlishly, looked down at himself, examined Julian. The carrier was gone, and the baby with it.</p><p>“Welcome to Paradise, Mister Merriweather. I believe you’ve been looking for me.” Julian scrambled off the sofa and nearly flew to attention before he put together that the man at the other side of the room wearing both the missing carrier and the missing baby wasn’t really Captain Sisko. “My name is Hippocrates Noah.”</p><p> </p><h3>[Stardate 49301.3, Infirmary, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>“You… ah… Noah, that is… went on a bit of a rant. Destruction of the planet this, brave new world that. Very impassioned speech, but I think the volume and passion are what scared the baby, who… well, I suppose Noah never had any intention of hurting. Perfect new start for the human race according to him, believe it or not. You’ve really got a remarkable voice, Captain.”</p><p>“And how did you escape from Noah? I’m assuming he strapped you to some terrible doomsday device.”</p><p>Julian pushed out his cheeks. Garak stood from the biobed and placed a reassuring hand on Julian’s shoulder, and told the Captain, with an entirely straight face, “Never underestimate the irresistible and delightful power of Agent Bashir’s wiles. He convinced Dax to set us free.”</p><p>“Honey…” Julian started to correct, then thought better of it.</p><p>“Excuse me?” Sisko asked, cocking an eyebrow and glancing between Garak and Julian.</p><p>“Oh, uh, Honey Bare! It was her name, Dax’s, in the program, Sir. I wasn’t calling Garak, uhm, that is...” Julian grimaced, realizing his mistake. Garak chuffed a soft sort of rumbly laugh, squeezed and then released his shoulder. Julian steadfastly ignored the secret thrill of both the contact and the sound.</p><p>“You were freed, and then?”</p><p>“We went straight to the control room.”</p><p>The slight catch in Garak’s breathing wouldn’t have been noticeable if he hadn’t been standing so close. Julian reasoned with himself: it wasn’t a lie, not really. They hadn’t <em> detoured </em> on the way to the control room, so by definition, they had certainly gone straight there.</p><p>Did it really matter, what had happened along the way?</p><p> </p><h3>[Stardate 49301.0, “The Cave Beneath Dr. Noah’s Everest Lair,” Holosuite 3, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>Did a conceptual equivalent of ‘famous last words’ not exist in the broader Cardassian lexicon? The things that had gone wrong since Garak had so cavalierly invited divine wrath were as serious as they were numerous.</p><p>From the varied and vast collection of wrong things that had indeed occurred, this twisted circumstance had finally emerged: Julian Bashir now found himself taking aim at Garak with a small, antiquated firearm that was nonetheless capable of blasting a gushing fatal hole, should the need arise. And the need certainly <em> did </em> seem to be arising.</p><p>“Don’t.” Very much the imperative, and not a request. <em> This </em> far, and <em> no </em> further. They didn’t have <em> time </em> for this! Concealed beneath Julian’s barked demand, there existed shades of <em> Please, don’t! </em> and even a dash of <em> I’m begging you, don’t! </em> but Julian knew that he was no longer dealing with plain and simple. Or playful and begrudgingly fond. Or even aloof and critically fussy. The stark challenge in Garak’s sinkhole eyes could not be met with any amount of pleading or even negotiation. Here, staring Garak down, pointing a gun at him, Julian had skipped into a puddle and fallen in, right up to the neck. And the waters were murky. This was sink or swim. A decision had to be made. Right <em> now</em>.</p><p>“Or what? You’ll <em> kill </em> me?” Garak couldn’t possibly be as incredulous as his tone conveyed. The likelihood of Garak’s survival fluctuated; the variables were reduced; the confidence interval became harrowingly more concrete. Julian did not lower the gun.</p><p>It was will or won’t.</p><p>“If you call for the exit, you might kill Sisko and the others.” Julian’s voice shook, a little. It couldn’t be helped. The gun in his hand, however, didn’t. “And I am not prepared to risk that.” Steadier. Clarity, blessed and cursed clarity, was upon him.</p><p>“I’m afraid I don’t believe you’ll pull that trigger,” Garak practically crowed. Could this really just be some sick game to Garak? <em> Still? </em> Why was he <em> pushing</em>? Julian tried to resist the impact of his damaged ego on the odds, but the damage couldn’t be undone. Did Garak not understand how <em> dangerous </em> it was to provoke him, as the stakes flew ever higher? Resolved Julian certainly was, but, for once, oh, not happily. </p><p>“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Julian snarled. It was a kindness to Garak, despite how cold this confidence suddenly felt. Julian knew he would shoot. He had to give fair warning.</p><p>“It’s time to face reality, Doctor.” But this <em> was </em> the reality, the reality of the gun, the reality of lives in the balance, the reality of Garak toying with him at <em> just </em> the most inopportune moment. <em> Damn him! </em> “You’re a man who dreams of being a hero because you know, deep down, that you’re not.” Heroism had nothing to do with it! It was only a matter of what Julian was willing to lose. Couldn’t Garak <em> see</em>? And Julian was angry, <em> beyond angry</em>, shocked and needled to the core, that Garak had forced him unnecessarily to this precipice, out on this horrible ledge. Julian needed Garak. <em> Why not the nursery? </em> But of course, he needed his friends to survive and couldn't bear to have their deaths on his head. And <em> Tolan</em>. He needed Tolan. He needed <em> everything</em>, to save them <em> all</em>. He would accept nothing less. “I’m no hero either, but I <em> do </em> know how to make a choice, and I am choosing to save myself, and you, and Tolan. Computer, show me the—”</p><p>It was all or nothing. It always had been. It always would be. Julian pulled the trigger, and the gun fired.</p><p>Julian jolted beyond the dinky recoil as Garak collapsed with a grunt against the wall of the tunnel. But Julian’s aim had apparently been true, and Garak rolled along the jagged surface to face him with eyes that had widened further—to outrage? To fear? To awe? Julian needed to come closer to be certain, so he did.</p><p>“You’ll be fine.” It was true, upon examination. The injury bled but it didn’t <em> gush</em>. “It’s just a flesh wound.”</p><p>“That was awfully close.” Garak’s voice was uncharacteristically thick, unclear. His wide eyes tracked between Julian’s face and his own hand, which had come away from his neck smeared with blood. “What if you’d killed me?” He put it so mildly, belying the shock that lingered on his face, with no more malice than when he interrogated Julian’s literary takes from across the table in the Replimat. </p><p>“What makes you think I wasn’t trying?”</p><p>“Doctor, if you had been <em> trying</em>, then I would most <em> certainly </em> be dead.” It was perversely flattering, to get such an acknowledgement out of Garak, whose still-very-wide eyes now shone with an obvious hunger that sent a jolt when registered straight to Julian’s groin and made him take a step back. <em> Later, later, I’ll deal with this later</em>—the thought was almost an absurd little cheery song floating over the exigency of the present circumstances. “Even so, I do believe there’s hope for you yet.”</p><p>“I’m so relieved.” Julian cleared his throat. That last statement had come out with less of the intended mocking sarcasm and more of a gruff note of invitation. No, it simply wouldn’t do. This was neither the time nor the place. “Now, we have to get to the control room. Are you coming or not?”</p><p>Julian pushed past Garak in the tunnel, dared to turn his back on him. He allowed himself a moment, just a moment, to reflect: that something had changed between them with that shot, that something had begun, something dangerous and urgent that wouldn’t be put off or ignored for long.</p><p> </p><h3>[Stardate 49301.3, Infirmary, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>“Good work, Doctor. Mister Garak. On behalf of the senior crew, I thank you for your initiative and bravery in foiling, well…” Sisko smiled, shook his head in wonder, “...<em>my </em> plans.” He nodded, looking quite satisfied and on the verge of departing.</p><p>“Captain, please. Wait.” Julian stuck out a forestalling hand and Sisko turned to face him fully. “I just… I wanted to say. I hope… I hope this makes my intentions clear.”</p><p>“I’m afraid I’m not following, Doctor.”</p><p>Julian swallowed, glanced at Garak worriedly. But both Garak and the Captain needed to hear this from Julian, right now, in just this way.</p><p>“I’m staying. My life is on this station. So is Tolan’s. It’s insanity sometimes, and it would be much safer for him elsewhere. I did… strongly consider leaving.” Julian flicked his gaze to Garak again, who looked as close to astonished as seemed possible for him, and considerably dismayed on top of that. “But we’re doing this. I’m bringing him up here, and I’m not resigning from Starfleet. I’m needed. I know there was some concern that I couldn’t balance my new parental responsibilities with my other duties, but I can, and I think I’ve demonstrated that.”</p><p>“Doctor. Lieutenant.” Sisko stepped forward, placed two warm, strong hands on Julian’s arms, patting with a paternal sort of affection. “You never had to convince <em> me </em> of that, or even the Major. Just yourself. I’m glad you’ve decided, and I’m grateful that you’re with us.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>YOU MADE IT. Thanks for joining me on this exhaustive (and at times, exhausting, at least for me) revisit of OMB with adopted Cardassian bb hijinks.</p><p>NO MORE DANG-NEAR-WHOLE EPISODE FIX-ITS IN THIS AU. ... I'm so tired.</p><p>I run on feedback! Please let me know your thoughts in the comments &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>In this canon-divergent AU, the main events of <em>Dr. Bashir, I Presume</em> take place much earlier in the chronology of the series, during the year 2371. The main plot arc of this work takes place a year later, in 2372.</p><p><b>NOTE:</b> There won't be an update on 3/29, but the brief hiatus will only last week -- next update will be on 4/5. Thanks to everyone who's been reading along so far!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3>[Stardate 49485.7, Private Quarters, Corridor H5-F, Level 5, Habitat Ring, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>These quarters were no longer Julian’s, no matter what the computer had to say about it. </p><p>In Tolan’s room, there was a cot, and there was a merry little yellow chifforobe bursting with outfits, many of which had been recently outgrown. In the corners, one couldn’t miss the growing mountains of abandoned toys. Each of these toys had been sentenced to one pile or another for the crime of becoming too familiar and therefore boring (but, then again, still dear enough to be missed <em> with strong objection raised </em> when stealthily removed by a despairing Dad). This space had never been Julian’s.</p><p>The main living area existed in a permanent state of at-least-partial disarray. The most recently acquired toys lived here, tucked dangerously in the shadow of a chair or just poking out from under the corner of a table into Julian’s path; entertainment was these toys’ secondary purpose, and to be tripped over was their first. The wide mat under the highchair was always tacky with spilled food, and the carpet around it was marred with the old stains of those meals that had been rejected and thrown outright beyond the protective range of that mat, little flecks of dark brown or green or red that Julian, in his haste, had missed on the first go-over and that had set in beyond the prospect of easy removal when finally noticed days later. So, the main living area was Tolan’s too.  </p><p>The mirror in the refresher was impossible to keep clean, what with the thrice daily <em> ordeal </em> of toothbrushing. Tolan had a tendency to babble right through any attempt Julian made to see to his little teeth (which were <em> growing </em> to fit the growing mouth, but also, thankfully, becoming a bit—just a <em> bit</em>, it seemed to Julian—duller with time as well). The giggling hoots and cheeps, and the frustrated squawks once the process had gone on a second longer than Tolan found amusement in it, habitually sprayed a fine mist of foaming spittle all over the walls and the floor and Julian and that damned mirror. This was not the refresher of a Starfleet officer in possession of any lingering passion for (or even attachment to!) sparkling surfaces. This was yet another one of Tolan’s domains, marked by him.</p><p>Could it even be said that Julian’s bedroom was his? He slept in the bed, of course, but over some months he had been compelled more and more frequently to share it. The cot was suitable for a kip, period. Julian didn’t know how Tolan knew the difference between going down for a few hours and the entire night, but he seemed to have a near-perfect sense of it, and he would fuss dreadfully after only a few minutes until retrieved if Julian dared to situate him in his own room for a full night’s rest. And then there would be much pacing, and then perhaps more reading aloud (another several bedtime stories or the latest study on ketracel metabolization extenders—these and a number of other scenarios were equally likely). Eventually, Julian would tire, and, loath to disturb the snoring pudge in his arms, he would very often elect to forgo the trial of re-negotiating the baby’s placement in the cot. The bed it would be, Julian’s bed, but really, no longer just Julian’s bed. </p><p>This baby, this Tolan, was no longer a clementine-head, but a whole melon! Weighing more than a stone and a quarter, he’d developed a special fondness for various stews, yamok sauce, and sprawling out the entirety of his limp, sleeping weight on Dad’s chest—a weight that was increasing <em> noticeably </em> (especially to augmented senses) night by night. There was a smothering risk in this ad hoc co-sleeping arrangement, certainly, but that risk was to Julian. And still, accepting that risk was better than dealing with guaranteed unceasing mournful grousing over the combadge late into the night. And besides, Tolan was warm and smelled nice and cuddled so sweetly that it was all worth the crushing nightly threat to Julian’s lungs. Finally, it had to be said that the bed, and therefore, the bedroom, could no longer be referred to honestly and completely as ‘Julian’s.’</p><p>Some of Julian’s most prized, sentimental possessions now had disputed ownership, to top it all off. The first time that Tolan, during an evening fuss, had reached toward Kukalaka, safely displayed on his hallowed shelf, Julian had been as stern as he could be about the refusal, as stern as he’d ever been with Tolan: “No,” he’d said. “You already have so many toys, my darling. What’s one ratty old bear to you?”</p><p>But Tolan had returned his focus, again and again, during subsequent evening fusses, to that same ratty old bear, just out of his infinitely greedy grasp, suddenly better and more desired than any of his other toys for being denied him by Dad.</p><p>“No, no, no.”</p><p>“Beebee?”</p><p>“No, Tolan.”</p><p>“<em>Iiiihhh…</em>”</p><p>“Oh, come on, now. Please don’t start that again.”</p><p>For a very young being of very few words, Tolan had proven to be exceptionally gifted in the art of debate, having usurped the title of ‘Cardassian with whom Julian Bashir is least likely to win an argument’ from Garak months ago. On particularly difficult nights, when Tolan seemed dead-set on remaining awake for-ever-and-all-eternity, Kukalaka became the last hope and the secret weapon in Julian’s baby-soothing arsenal. Some nights, Tolan did indeed win the rattiest and most precious prize.</p><p>It had only been a matter of time: Julian gasped awake one morning, still in his uniform, hands flying to Tolan’s sides and lifting him just enough to manage a decent breath. After carefully resettling the baby’s weight, Julian’s hands went out to his sides in a surrendering starfish pose, and the pinky of his right hand just grazed that well known and loved texture. The ratty bear arm that Julian brought up to his sleep-squinted eyes, however, had been horrifically amputated sometime in the night.</p><p>“Tolan!” Julian hissed. The baby snorted, pressed his whole face against Julian’s chest, and then lifted his head wobbily to stare up at him. Tolan offered a toothy grin at the sight of Kukalaka’s arm, which Julian pointed at him in a wordless gesture of <em> j’accuse</em>.</p><p>“Koo!” the baby supplied.</p><p>“Yes, Kukalaka! Part of him, at least. My god, you’ve <em> killed </em> him. You’re a killer, my darling. You. Are. A. Kukalaka.” Julian waved the arm, making Tolan laugh. “Killer.” He tickled Tolan’s nose with the end of the arm, and the baby laughed harder. Julian sat up with Tolan and found the remaining tatters of the teddy; the left leg too had been pulled from the bear’s body, and there was incriminating fluff and fibers found between Tolan’s teeth when he smiled again.</p><p> </p>
<h3>[Stardate 49485.9, Replimat, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>“Can you save him?”</p><p>“<em>Save him</em>?” Garak’s expression was interested tending to mildly confused, but Julian noted the tenseness in the corners of the mouth—suppressed amusement, perhaps even fondness lived there.</p><p>“Mend him. You know, fix him. Can you?”</p><p>Garak tilted his head in that carefully considering way he had of drawing out a decision, as if there could be any doubt. And there was that undeniable hot tingle behind Julian’s ears, right on schedule. There wasn’t any doubt, not really, that Garak would do this for him. But the idea that a bit of a show might sweeten the deal gave Julian an abashed sort of thrill. It was the kind of thrill he didn’t get to enjoy too frequently these days, so he savored it, for the moment.</p><p>“Kookookoo!” Tolan yodeled suddenly, wobbling on unsteady legs on Julian’s lap (despite the firm hold Julian had on him), and he reached a chubby arm for the massacred pieces of bear that were strewn across the usual Replimat table.</p><p>“I’d do it myself,” Julian said and shrugged. “Patched him up plenty of times before, but I’ve got a shift in twenty minutes, and I don’t think I can eke out the time before tonight. And if he’s not back in one piece by bedtime, well.” Julian huffed out a breath and sucked his bottom teeth, and then added the finishing move of a calculated lip bite. “Please, Garak. I’ll owe you one.” Oh, treacherous caressing tone, fond and needy. How the legendary prowess of Julian Subatoi Bashir had been corrupted, to have the application of its power reduced to this, openly begging in the Replimat to have his teddy mended. But at long last, Garak sighed assent.</p><p>“I suppose I’ll have to make the time for it, seeing as the situation is so very dire.” Garak held up a cautioning finger, smirking as he gave it a chastising waggle at both Julian and Tolan. “But as I have several commissions due by the end of the week, don’t think I won’t recall that a favor is owed.”</p><p>“A big one,” Julian agreed, and he flashed his most winning smile. “Anything, just say the word.”</p><p>“Hm.” Garak rolled his eyes, but ended up with an answering smile himself. The ocular ridges shifted to open up his expression a little more—his mien was suddenly almost <em> sunny</em>. “I don’t suppose you can spare my favorite floor manager?”</p><p>“For the day?” Julian laughed. “You’ve had him for two of my shifts this week already. Don’t you have those commissions to work on? I’d hate to trouble you even more.”</p><p>“Trouble you <em> both </em> may be,” Garak admitted slyly, sparing a significant glance to the morbidly dismembered Kukalaka on the table, “but the time <em> with </em> Tolan is no trouble, not to me. A sweet face is always good for business.”</p><p>“If you insist,” Julian replied, and he held Tolan out across the table, who went to Garak’s arms with a laugh and an excited kick. “I think I have time for another raktajino before I head out. And I <em> finally </em> finished <em> The Citizen’s Heart </em> last week, believe it or not. Put old chum there right to sleep, reading it to him. I’ve had worse luck with medical journals.” Julian stood quickly with his empty mug before Garak could make a retort. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that Cardassian romances are so plodding and dull!” he tossed back over his shoulder, grinning to himself. </p><p><em> That </em> would prime Garak just <em> perfectly </em> for a bit of invigorating sparring. That such an interaction was guaranteed to put more bounce in Julian’s step than that promised by his second raktajino was a silly private indulgent acknowledgement that had him shaking his head at himself at the replicator. The erotic thrills of life had dwindled in freqency and variation to this over the months: a bit of a pre-shift flirt with <em> nanny Garak</em>, that sly old crocodile who would tut and peer down his nose, giving Julian absurd little heated jolts of energy with such pointed looks and playful barbs. It was becoming easier and easier to forget, moment to secretly thrilling moment, that Garak was something else, something <em> more </em> than a willing childminder and a simple tailor and a morning or lunchtime confidence boost. But then, even though he <em> was </em> more, and Julian couldn’t afford to forget it, did that really mean that he was entirely <em> other</em>? Was not his affection for Tolan, hell, even his affection for <em> Julian</em>, not clear and obvious and real enough?</p><p>Perhaps today could be the day, some sort of reckoning, at least a little more honesty. Because something <em> had </em> changed with that fateful incident, that careful but still very lucky shot, in Holosuite 3. It had been weeks and weeks, and the tension wasn’t dissipating in the slightest. It was compounding. Soon it would be <em> obvious</em>, and it really needed to be addressed, even if all that meant was a tactful assertion of boundaries on Julian’s part, a rejection that wouldn’t really be a <em> rejection</em>, after all, since there was still some flimsy plausible deniability on Garak’s side. It was undeniably A Thing, that they <em> recognized </em> all these hidden dimensions in one another now, that they really <em> saw </em> each other, and A Thing had to at some point at least be acknowledged, in Julian’s experience, and in this case, very likely put to bed.</p><p>But then, the attention was so <em> nice</em>. And despite his best efforts to qualify it in a way that rendered it mundane, Julian found what it inspired in him to be entirely unique. Yes, there were the more typical fantasies, very intrusive on occasion, that centered on Garak’s alienness—just what did he have going on beneath all those rich layers of fabric? What might the ridges do in response to sexual arousal? Flush? Swell? How lovely it would be to <em> see </em> such an interesting physiological reaction, to be the <em> cause </em> of it! Perhaps Cardassian mating behaviors were aggressive and politically rigid; might Garak bite? Mark Julian in some way? Lovelier still! Or maybe he’d let Julian be the aggressor—what a thought! That jigsaw personality, that many-faced mask, falling away, shattering to pieces in an onslaught of kisses and nibbles and crude confessions. <em> Julian, Julian</em>, this undone fantasy version of Garak might mewl—and he <em> always </em> used Julian’s first name in these flights of fancy—<em>Oh, my Julian, there’s no hope for either of us now, I’m yours, I’m yours… </em> And he would be. Entirely Julian’s. Not a spy. Not an exile. Not a nanny. Not even a tailor. Just Julian’s.</p><p>These lines of thought no longer discomfited Julian in the same way as some of the <em> other </em> fantasies tended to do. Julian could admit to himself, at long last, after so many troubling months, that it wouldn’t be all so ethically quandarous to go for a tumble or two with Garak, just to sate his curiosity. It was this terrible mixing of desires, sexual and… something <em> else</em>… that brought pounding panic lately to Julian’s temples whenever he seriously considered actively trying to resolve any of this. </p><p>It was the fantasy of waking up from a good, long rest, to scones and jam in bed and a happy already-dressed baby to warmly cuddle between two loving bodies before a shift. It was the fantasy of reading in low light together, a bit of a bicker and a shoulder rub before bed, a kiss to the forehead, and maybe for once Julian could be spared the horrifying mess of brushing Tolan’s teeth. Perhaps even Julian might be able to dream of having a moment to put on his own pajamas. Beyond that, it was the vague, uninformed impression of an arid planet, with darkly spiraling architecture, a little boy holding the hands of his parents who skipped him along, lifting to swing him with easy laughter. A happy family. A happy family for <em> Julian </em> to be part of. Yes, it was <em> that </em> kind of fantasy, so powerful, its hold, but, so, so dangerous, when the void of the missing presence in Julian’s life and in his head was being filled by Garak. Well, who else could it be, right now? Right now, there was only Garak.</p><p>A cry tore through his reverie and Julian wheeled from the replicator back toward the table, the second raktajino quite forgotten. An answering cry rose in Julian’s throat—he thought at first that Dukat was there at the table, towering over Garak and Tolan and looking incensed—but no, this was a stranger, in drab civilian dress, perhaps a little younger than Garak, lean and angular and obviously tense beneath his shapeless clothing. He cradled one of his hands.</p><p>“Doctor Bashir, I presume?” the Cardassian man asked as Julian approached, stumbling, and it was all Julian could do to retain control of his bladder; the question had an instant impact, twisting and biting all the way down his spine, deep into his guts.</p><p>“Yes,” Julian managed, barely above a whisper. He clenched his fists to fight off the sudden dizziness. The man’s eyes were grey, light grey—<em>Unusual for a Cardassian</em>, Julian thought, and the back of his throat went tacky and itchy. He closed his mouth and swallowed.</p><p>“My name is Atherin Gidd,” the man gritted out, waving his injured hand, “and I’ve come for my son.”</p><p> </p>
<h3>[Stardate 49486.0, Infirmary, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>“There,” Julian said, and then he cleared his throat for the fifth time in as many minutes as he withdrew the regenerator from Gidd’s hand. “Good as new. I’m sorry he bit you. He can be... shy with…” <em> Don’t swallow</em>, he told himself. <em> Stop acting like such a wreck</em>. He swallowed. “...with, ah, strangers.”</p><p>Garak caught Julian’s eye and snuggled Tolan into a more secure hold, angling the baby’s face away from Gidd’s interested stare.</p><p>“It was my mistake to approach so directly. He’s never seen me before in his life. Believe me,”—Atherin Gidd flexed his fingers with a nod of approval to Julian—“were it not for this ugly business on Pentath III, I would have much preferred that it remain that way.”</p><p>“You were on Pentath III?” Julian asked. He was using every trick and strategy in his impressive repertoire to remain calm, not to let the deductions run too far out ahead of the moment, give too much away.</p><p>“Oh, not me, no, never.” Gidd stood from the biobed. He was tall—taller than Julian but similar in build, slight and wiry, and his neck was long and graceful, a delicate thing despite the well-defined ridges, something of a physical foil for Garak. Handsome, in an entirely different way. Not very expressive, but with an easy command of inflection. Charismatic almost by accident, a natural draw. “My mistress fell gravid. I sent her to Pentath III to make a life with her brother. And then there were all these reports. The Klingons.” The man’s tone was conversational, with only a touch more urgency than one’s voice might carry when discussing the prospect of inclement weather on a vacation planet. “The surviving colonists pointed me here. I found out that the girl who was taking care of my son in the wake of Mijean’s death got it into her head that the Federation was her only hope to save him. And she wasn’t exactly quiet about it.” Gidd shook his head slightly. He smirked, but it was a grim, mirthless expression. “They’re doing much better there, now, those people. Mining operations are even starting back up. And the Klingons are long gone. That girl at least might have been spared her fate if she’d had any patience or forethought. She might have earned a handsome reward!” he chuckled, and it was dry. He held out a stiff arm toward Garak. “May I?”</p><p>“I’m afraid there’s been a terrible misunderstanding.” Garak’s voice was honey, soothing and sweet and devious to Julian’s ears. Garak pulled a padd from seemingly nowhere with one hand, barely jostling the baby in his other, and held this out to Gidd in lieu of Tolan. “It’s all right there. I’m dreadfully sorry about your mistress… and her child. Terrible, what’s happened on Pentath III and elsewhere on the outer worlds. So many people have died, gone without a trace, it seems. My condolences.”</p><p>Julian didn’t say anything, indeed, found that he couldn’t. He could only watch the padd move from Garak’s hand to Atherin Gidd’s, and then watch the lowering of Gidd’s sharp ocular ridges in suspicion, then consternation, and finally what looked like a dark sort of resignation. After what seemed to Julian to be a dehydrated, gulping eternity, Gidd returned the padd to Garak’s waiting hand. He looked sterner now. More combative. Not in any way satisfied.</p><p>“You’ll forgive me if I see the need to verify these records with High Command.”</p><p>“Oh, one can’t be too thorough with such things,” Garak responded solemnly. “By all means. I understand completely. No offense is taken.” But then, Gidd hadn’t insinuated that no offense had been meant. Garak gave Tolan a little bounce in his arms, and the baby looked up at the man he had bitten with wide, cautious eyes, bringing a little guarded fist to his mouth. “Handsome, isn’t he?” Garak asked. “Luckily, he takes after his mother.”</p><p>Atherin Gidd left the Infirmary without another word. As soon as he had gone, Julian lunged for Garak and all but tore Tolan from his arms, seating the baby on the edge of the nearest biobed.</p><p>“Open up, chum,” Julian murmured unsteadily, giving a tap to Tolan’s bottom lip with a sampler. Tolan gave a needy little predatory grin—he’d need the refresher very soon, it was just that time of the day—and Julian got the swab from his teeth. Julian allowed Garak to retrieve Tolan as he turned to slide the sample into the scanning interface with a shaky hand. “Computer.” He cleared his throat. <em> Again</em>. “Computer,” he repeated, less hoarsely, with feigned confidence that was at least a bit more believable, “isolate and then compare the sample matter with the genetic profile of Tolan Bashir.”</p><p>“Direct genetic lineage confirmed,” the computer reported monotonously. The only thing that moved now, that <em> could </em> move, were Julian’s eyes. He raised their focus slowly, looking up and to the side. Garak blinked at him. Almost <em> stupidly</em>. <em> Damn him! </em> Tolan made an impatient noise and squirmed a bit in Garak’s arms, thankfully distracted by his own immediate needs. The baby wouldn’t know the word <em> genetic </em> or the word <em> lineage</em>, anyway.</p><p>“You have a shift to work, Doctor,” Garak said finally, when it became apparent that Julian was unwilling (unable, really) to fill the silence, “and I have a… What did you say it was called? A teddy? I have a teddy to mend. And Tolan, it would seem, has a bowel to move.”</p><p>“And then you have questions to answer,” Julian managed, and he was able to straighten too after a second. “<em>Truthfully</em>. I want you to come to my quarters as soon as I’m off shift.”</p><p>“Whatever you want,” Garak answered, almost lightly, and it was sick, it was so inappropriate that the tone and the glint in his eye <em> touched </em> something still in Julian, through the panic and the mounting confusion and dread; this playfulness still produced a little obscene answering flutter. Julian’s eyes stung as he turned away, back toward the console, confirming via the analytic comparison graphics the plain fact that the computer had already voiced.</p><p> </p>
<h3>[Stardate 49486.8, Private Quarters, Corridor H5-F, Level 5, Habitat Ring, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>“What did you show Gidd? What was on the padd?”</p><p>“You know what was on the padd.”</p><p>“Garak.” Julian swallowed the sudden urge to add weight to his insistence by using Garak’s first name. “I’m not going to play these games with you, not about this. You need to tell me what was on that padd.”</p><p>“Well, you signed it yourself.”</p><p>“Now—no, no, I can’t. Stop.” Julian sat fast and heavy on his sofa, cradling his flushing hot face with both hands. Panic, choking, smothering, something invisible but vast was hurtling through time, inevitable, to crush him. “What. What is it? What did I sign?”</p><p>“Hm.” Julian felt more than saw Garak sit beside him, and then he most <em> definitely </em> felt a hand on his knee. A squeeze there, brief. “Under normal circumstances, it would have been extremely inadvisable for you to sign anything that you didn’t fully understand. But, you’re very lucky, my dear Doctor. I’ve taken care of things, I’ve handled all of it. Atherin Gidd has no legal claim on Tolan, despite the genetic link you discovered.”</p><p>A hitching of breath, a hissing sob, wheezed out. It couldn’t be helped. Julian bent over impossibly further on the couch, his head nearly between his knees. “Why?” he whispered. “Why doesn’t he have a claim?”</p><p>“Because I’m in possession of a notice of birth for one Tolan Garak, filed belatedly after the passing of his biological mother on Pentath III. There’s a genetic profile attached to the notice as well, and an affidavit attesting to Tolan’s genetic relationship to <em> me</em>, seemingly compiled and definitely signed off on by a well-respected Federation doctor.” Julian swore, very quietly, under his breath. “Central Command accepted it without question,” Garak continued calmly. “The truth is, Tolan is the legitimized son of an exile, which makes his chances for future repatriation much better than those of an orphan raised by a human.”</p><p>Julian groaned softly, tried not to throw up. The sounds of Tolan munching and slurping his stew in the highchair across the room came to him as if through a glob of unspecified jelly.</p><p>“I did this for <em> you</em>,” Garak insisted quietly. “You must understand, you would not have been able to proceed with legal adoption. The risk to the security of the Union, if we Cardassians allowed even our unwanted children to be farmed out to any willing pair of arms in the quadrant… well, I’m sure you can see that the risk would be <em> considerable</em>.” The hand was back on Julian’s knee. It lingered. Julian didn’t know what he wanted to do. Actually, he did—he wanted to <em> wake up </em> from this nightmare. “I know it doesn’t seem fair to <em> you</em>. But, this is how things are done.”</p><p>“You expected me to put all this together, did you?”</p><p>“My dear, dear Doctor,” Garak sighed. It was fond, and it was sad, the way he was breathing, the musicality of his near-perfect Standard. Julian realized with crushing, dawning horror that he loved Garak as fiercely as he hated him, within the context of this particularly horrible moment, at least. “You signed what I put in front of you without question. I assumed you didn’t want to know... unless it became necessary to tell you. Did I assume incorrectly?”</p><p>“What am I going to do?” The anger was there, Julian knew it. It would come out later, in private, or maybe, if he was lucky, it could all be directed into a holoprogram. But right now, Julian could only sense the hollow ache, the emptiness, the lack of hope, the horrible blank space where hope had once lived, a gaping, bloodless wound. “His father, Garak. Gidd is his…”</p><p>“No,” Garak whispered, but it was as forceful as it was quiet, almost a hiss, and he squeezed Julian’s leg again, right above the knee, silently cautioning for the smallest of voices. Tolan, Julian knew, couldn’t overhear <em> this</em>. Even not understanding all the nuances of the language, he couldn’t be a witness to such distress. He’d already suffered so much. The thought stabbed deeply and wrenched another silent, shaking sob out of Julian, and he tensed miserably. Garak kept rubbing his leg, and it was strange and terrible that the sensation was the only grounding thing in the universe at the moment. And Garak wasn’t done <em> talking</em>. And this was awful. All of it was just so <em> awful</em>. “Doctor, saying that Gidd is Tolan’s father doesn’t make it true. Even forcing the computer to say it doesn’t make it true. Nothing can simply be spoken into indisputable fact. <em> Consider </em> the last several months. Consider <em> most </em> of Tolan’s life. <em> You </em> are his father. You heard what Gidd said—he sent Tolan’s mother away, he didn’t want anything to do with either one of them. All you need to do is hold your tongue for a little while longer, and this… small problem… will go away. <em> Help me </em> by having some patience and remaining calm. Everything will turn out. This doesn’t have to change your plans in the slightest. Tolan is yours. He knows this. He deserves <em> you</em>.”</p><p>“And what about <em> you</em>?” Julian jerked away. He kept his voice low but turned a teary glower at Garak, shaking his head at all this orchestrated insanity. “Tolan <em> Garak</em>? I have no legal rights. I never did.” Julian blinked slowly. A few more tears pushed out and down the sides of his nose, collecting at the tip. He wiped it with the back of his hand. “If I had decided to take him away, maybe to Earth, what would you have done?”</p><p>“You should focus on the situation at hand,” Garak deflected. He leaned in slightly and even lifted a hand, but stood quickly when Julian flinched even further away. “I…” Garak raised his gaze to the ceiling briefly, then looked back down at Julian. “I didn’t have to think about it.” Garak didn’t exactly hesitate, but his voice was far away. “Is that what you would like to hear? I knew you would stay. For his sake, if not for yours.”</p><p>Julian chuckled, suddenly, sharply and loudly enough to draw a curious peep from the baby, who seemed to have finished his stew. Then there was near silence for some moments, punctuated only by the soft <em> drip-drip-drip </em> of the remains of Tolan’s dinner onto the mat beneath his highchair. There was a strange calm beyond the despair, everything in its place, at least physically. Tolan was full and gassy and happy and likely covered hairline to belly in a layer of stew. But Julian would have to compose himself, get up and turn the chair to confirm it. Garak was here. And he had just been sitting on the couch, talking so quietly, so intimately, with Julian. They had touched. Julian’s knee already missed that warm, steadying hand. Something deep and buried and wounded in Julian cried out: <em> I need you. I’m scared! I can’t do this alone. Stay. Stay! </em> “Get out,” Julian pronounced instead, clipped and cool.</p><p>Garak reached into the bag slung over his right shoulder, a bag that Julian hadn’t noticed until now, and pulled out Kukalaka, whole and in better shape than he’d been in for decades. Garak placed the teddy carefully, reverently, on the sofa next to Julian. He left without bidding Julian or Tolan goodnight.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Well, shoot. It does seem like Garak done goofed, doesn’t it? And just when Julian was really starting to let all those pants feelings flow freely.</p><p>As always, I'd love love LOVE to hear from you in the comments, dearest, best beloved readers :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>In this canon-divergent AU, the main events of <em>Dr. Bashir, I Presume</em> take place much earlier in the chronology of the series, during the year 2371. The main plot arc of this work takes place a year later, in 2372.</p><p>Who ordered confusing time jumps for no other reason than to stick to my fancy header motif? Oh, nobody ordered that? Well, damn...</p><p><b>ETA:</b> Obviously my canon divergence AU is also extending somewhat to the timeline for political upheaval in the Cardassian Union (BECAUSE I FEEL LIKE IT). In this version of events, the Klingons were making more of a naked power grab when they initially invaded, based on intelligence about upheaval but not yet an outright coup, and the Cardassian military branch retains some power and coasts for a longer while after the Obsidian Order goes down.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3>[Stardate 49487.3, Private Quarters, Corridor H5-F, Level 5, Habitat Ring, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>Julian paced and thought, thought and paced.</p><p>He needed to speak with Gidd again if he could, gather more information before the inexorable legal proceedings began. It was a risk, and it was perhaps not entirely appropriate, and there could very well be consequences, but all the same, it had to be done.</p><p>There were steps.</p><p>Julian was good at listing and taking steps, going down the line: this leads to that, which necessitates this, which yields that. If there was an injured body in front of him, opened up, training would take over—a familiar dance, perhaps circuitous, complicated, but nearly always leading to a happy resolution. <em> Take a bow. </em> The progression of Julian’s life had been patterned just so, by cautious steps toward the edge of his abilities and back, by the fanfare of flag-waving, perhaps a little too vigorously, by falling back into line at certain intervals, invisible among the sea of other dancers, when it inevitably became necessary to do so.</p><p>And now? Well, now it was easy, second nature, to visualize a path. He was perhaps a step or two behind; the tempo had quickened, the song had morphed into something frantic and discordant, but fancy footwork could save the day, he knew. Even though his partner had gotten somewhat out of hand.</p><p>“Computer, locate registered station visitor Atherin Gidd.”</p><p>“Atherin Gidd is in Julian Bashir’s quarters.”</p><p>The follicles on the back of Julian’s neck fluttered into a tsunami of heightened awareness, and he shut off the pacing and the thought. The only thing that would have given away the fuzzy shock blanketing his body like heat lightning was the slight grimace twisting his mouth as he turned, the anticipatory narrowing of his eyes in the darkness.</p><p>“The Computer is mistaken,” Garak said blithely from a darkened corner of the room. He gave a perfunctory shove, and Gidd fell forward, tripped over his feet, but did manage to land on the sofa, if in a bit of a pile. Garak leveled a small spiral-wave pistol with a half-smile. “Atherin Gidd is dead.”</p><p> </p>
<h3>[Stardate 49487.7, Operations Center, Central Core, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>Soon after the sterilization procedure, Julian had sought out, requested, and reviewed early medical records. After he’d struck his deal with Starfleet, fear of arousing suspicion had been eliminated as a conscious factor, and only curiosity and anticipatory resentment remained at the front of his mind.</p><p>He had been right to expect a bitter pill. The record of a routine checkup in late 2346 for then five-year-old Jules Bashir revealed near-perfect vision, the health of the eyes predicting that intervention to correct his sight would likely not have been needed, barring injury or illness, until late in life.</p><p>But even his eyes had not been left alone. </p><p>Static visual acuity had been improved and would never degrade. Dynamic visual reactions had been honed, pushing the topmost bracket of the known range of sensitivity for vestibular-ocular reflex, such that the effect had cascaded on to result in significant improvements to spatial reasoning, balance, and coordination. Luckily enough. The fractional, normal anisocoria had been corrected. Latency of pupillary response had by all natural standards been eliminated. </p><p>Someone had even tampered, ever so slightly, with his iris color. <em> Just a tiny little melanin adjustment</em>, his mother had soft-pedaled him on a not-so-recent call, <em> Just to help your lovely eyes pop</em>.</p><p>They were certainly <em> popping </em> now, very handsomely, in the wake of a near-blinding flash from the viewscreen in Ops.</p><p>“It’s gone,” Jadzia said before anyone else recovered. Her attention had been on the scanning displays, not the viewscreen, but now she tilted her chin up to take in the sight, blinking owlishly at the magnified fragments of hull spinning away from one another. Julian crossed over to her station, and he jabbed his finger down onto a precise point on the mapped screen.</p><p>“Can you call up some playback? I think I saw something else right here, just as we fired.”</p><p>“I didn’t hit them that hard,” Kira said wonderingly, mouth agape, brows drawn over her wrinkled nose as she jerked her attention between various displays and the viewscreen. “They should have just been disabled!”</p><p>“Good <em> eye</em>, Julian,” Jadzia murmured, and there were flutters fighting within him, echoing flashes of pleasure at having been praised and the equally electric old conditioned panic brought on by inadvertently exposing the edges of his ability for everyone to see. It was, after all, a good eye. It was a near-perfect eye. There was nothing to hide now, but that striking fear lived on in his body, an adapted response to the genetic therapies just like any other. Not so lucky.</p><p>“Report!” Sisko called out, not turning his attention from the viewscreen.</p><p>“The freighter’s been destroyed,” Jadzia responded tersely. “But we’ve identified a Cardassian cruiser, Keldon class, that decloaked briefly, bearing 72-mark-18. A little more than two thousand kilometers out. We’ve lost it again. I’ll bet it’s long gone.”</p><p>“Keldon class?” Kira fired off a look as accidentally critical as the shot she’d just taken before reviewing her instruments for the fifth time in twenty seconds. She continued to speak as she poked and prodded her interfaces in an attempt to dig up more sensible data. “Those ships were commissioned by the Obsidian Order using <em> Romulan </em> cloaking technology specifically <em> for </em> the joint offensive. Bajoran and Starfleet intelligence both confirmed they’ve all been destroyed.”</p><p>“Apparently not <em> all </em> of them,” Jadzia replied easily. She sent her display to superimpose over the viewscreen. “You can <em> almost </em> see the full shape of it, and the signature’s clear as day. Keldon class. And that would explain why it was only on vis for a split second.”</p><p>“I want the incident report in my hands within the hour. We need to contact Central Command.”</p><p><em> Shit. </em> There was a second explosion, this one behind Julian’s eyes, and his stomach plummeted past his ankles. </p><p>“I’m… I don’t think anybody’s going to be able to reach Central Command,” Julian ventured. He kept his eyes on Jadzia’s scanning interface. The last time he’d offered unsolicited feedback to the Captain in Ops was weighing heavy.</p><p>“Oh?” There was a definite edge to that commanding ‘<em>Oh</em>’—hard to miss. <em> Don’t do it again </em> was spelled out in a flashy marquee along that edge. Julian hauled himself into at ease, pinned his focus forward.</p><p>“Captain, I have it on Garak’s authority”—<em>Damnit, damnit, same as last time! Same as the bloody last time!</em>—“that there <em> is </em> no Central Command. There’s been a coup. The Detapa Council has formed a civilian government.”</p><p>“<em>What? </em>” But for the wheeze blasting the force out of Kira’s voice, it might have been a screech.</p><p>“Interesting.” Sisko still clutched admirably to calm, but the threat beneath the sonorous rumble lingered. He turned stiffly to Kira. “Major, I imagine you would have already been briefed if Bajoran Intelligence was up to speed on these developments.” She raised her eyebrows in response, as if to say <em> I would certainly hope so! </em> “Try to contact the Council, and keep me informed. Sisko to Garak.”</p><p>“Ah, Captain! How can I be of service today?”</p><p>And what had Julian expected? That Garak would be caught off guard in the slightest, much less <em> anxious </em> in any discernible way to be called up by the Captain? Only the initial twitch of an eyebrow gave away Sisko’s building annoyance, but then he leveled a stern glare at Julian as he spoke again over the comm. “My office,” he gritted. “<em>Now</em>.”</p><p> </p>
<h3>[Stardate 49487.3, Private Quarters, Corridor H5-F, Level 5, Habitat Ring, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>“Wait! You can’t just—”</p><p>“Where is Tolan?” Garak interrupted, but his tone was mild. Disturbing but expected, too: Garak’s smile and his seeming ease. There was no edge to the voice. He could have been clarifying the details of a commissioned dress.</p><p>“He’s in my bed, asleep. Now, what are you—”</p><p>“Tolan!” the man who was apparently dead interrupted from the sofa, scowling in ineffectual fury up at Garak. “A service name,” he nearly spat, “and I find him here, secreted away in the care of your Federaji paramour!” It was more than Julian’s breath that hitched. His pulse, all synaptic pathways, registered a blip of confused scattering.  </p><p>“Just a <em> moment</em>! <em> Really</em>, I’m not—” </p><p>“He’s <em> mine</em>,” the stranger growled. “I know he’s <em> mine</em>.”</p><p>“Verify that with <em> Central Command</em>, did you?” Garak laughed, making a show of ignoring Julian’s dithering. “Central Command lost control weeks ago. You know that. And now you know that <em> I </em> know that. Well done. You’ve at least managed to learn <em> something </em> in your time here.”</p><p>“<em>Enough</em>!” Julian hissed, thinking better at the last second of a shout that would have risked waking the baby. He pointed between both Cardassian men, jabbing the air, frantic to locate a <em> point </em> . “One of you, I don’t care who, is going to tell me what the <em> hell </em> is going on and how the <em> hell </em> you beamed into my quarters.”</p><p>Garak’s smile turned altogether <em> indulgent</em>. “It seems our friend can afford all sorts of fancy toys... Transporter code overrides as well as this handsome piece of technology here,”—Garak gave the small disruptor a jiggle—“to name a few... It’s a pity he hasn’t cultivated the skills to use them effectively.” He raised an eyeridge. “It was almost <em> too </em> easy, my dear Doctor,” Garak finally addressed Julian while still directing that awful simpering look to the other Cardassian. His grip on the pistol was almost lazy. “This man has been quite unsubtly looking for any opportunity to ambush me all day—that is, until I came here to your quarters <em> with </em> Tolan and left <em> without</em>.” Garak sniffed. “He might have believed that, of the two of us, <em> you </em> might prove to be the <em> less </em> wily quarry.”</p><p>“Less <em> wily</em>?” Julian balked, and then cleared his throat, pointing again at Not-Gidd. “Who the hell are you?”</p><p>The man on the sofa grunted but did not supply another name.</p><p>“Well, I wanted to talk to you anyway, Gidd.” Whatever the man wanted to be called, it didn’t matter. “None of this charade was my idea, and I had no intention of keeping Tolan’s… lineage… a secret from you. I want to work this out. So it’s… fine that you’re here.”</p><p>“Federation laws will <em> compel </em>you to comply with my demands.” Despite the fighting words, the helplessness rendered by the disruptor’s aim was evident—Not-Gidd strained uselessly on the sofa as if against a physical bit pulling him back.</p><p>“Oh,” Garak sighed, and his smile widened impossibly, his teeth flashing in the dim light. “I doubt very much that the Federation authorities will have any patience for the demands of an exposed acolyte of the True Way.”</p><p> </p>
<h3>[Stardate 49487.8, Captain’s Office, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>The minutes in the Captain’s office preceding Odo’s and then Garak’s arrival passed in oppressive silence. Julian stood before Sisko’s desk and fought back all signals to fidget. He’d chanced a look or two at his Captain’s face, but the man wasn’t looking back at him. He simply sat, stony and still but for one hand, which he focused on. He palmed the baseball and rolled it, and it moved jerkily; the grip was tight, unhappy. Julian resolved to count the scuff marks on his own boots.</p><p>There weren’t any greetings extended when the summoned parties had all assembled. No <em> Hello</em>, no <em> Welcome, gentlemen</em>. Sisko very firmly replaced the baseball on its stand and steepled his fingers, looking at his hands. “<em>You</em>,” he said, low and very soft. Julian opened his mouth, not sure that anything would come out except a series of unproductive stammers (willing to take the gamble nonetheless), but Sisko glanced at him and held up a staying hand. “<em>You</em>,” he repeated, and directed an accusing finger at Garak, who had come to stand at Julian’s right elbow. Julian flicked his gaze and just caught the tail-end of an automatic, empty sort of smile.</p><p>“Doo?” the sleepy baby in Garak’s arms responded blearily.</p><p>“What do <em> you </em> know about the current status of the central authority governing the Cardassian Union?” Sisko asked.</p><p>“Why, there’s been a civilian coup—the anticipated and natural result of an Obsidian-Order-shaped-vacuum.” Rarely, very rarely, had Julian seen Benjamin Sisko struggle so obviously to avoid an outburst of temper, and Garak’s near-sarcastic solicitousness certainly wouldn’t facilitate that avoidance for long.</p><p>“How long have you known, and when did you inform the Doctor?”</p><p>“I’ve known for several weeks. But I only informed Doctor Bashir earlier this evening.”</p><p> </p>
<h3>[Stardate 49487.3, Private Quarters, Corridor H5-F, Level 5, Habitat Ring, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>“I know who <em> you are</em>,” the stranger pressed back, but he gave away his frustration, something close to desperation. He was incensed, of course, but he was also, it seemed to Julian, absolutely terrified. Terrified of Garak. “I know who your <em> enemies </em> are. And now I know what you <em> know</em>.”</p><p>“How flattering,” Garak drawled. “My reputation so rarely precedes me these days.” He hadn’t lowered the disruptor, and instead recentered his aim and took three casual steps toward the sofa. “If you know who I am, then you know that you shouldn’t have come here.”</p><p>“All <em> right</em>.” Julian stepped in to intercept and held out his hand. “Give me <em> that</em>.” He reached out and <em> yanked</em>, and the disruptor came easily out of Garak’s yielding grasp. They exchanged a brief look, away from not-Gidd’s searching eyes, Garak opaque and neutral, Julian hot and stern. By the time Julian stepped away a moment later, Garak had already replaced his expression with the more sinister smile he’d put on for the benefit of the captive audience, who, despite the removal of the weapon from play, remained firmly seated. Julian hefted the disruptor, fiddled with the settings for a moment (highest to lowest, safety back <em> on </em>), before depositing it on a nearby table. “Answer me,” he said, turning back toward both Cardassians. He didn’t wait for the man on the sofa to decline or acquiesce to the imperative. “Why now? Tolan is nearly a year old. You sent his mother away. Why?”</p><p>The stranger was frozen there, seeming to consider. Only his eyes moved, tracking between Garak and Julian. Finally he sighed, slid his gaze to the side away from them both, and leaned back heavily into the sofa. He chuckled once, the noise gruff and sharp, but offered nothing more by way of an answer.</p><p>Julian tapped his badge after a full ten seconds of silence had elapsed. “Bashir to security.”</p><p>“Go ahead,” came the immediate response. </p><p>“There’s an intruder in my quarters. He’s been disarmed, and I’d like him removed.”</p><p>“On our way, Doctor.”  </p><p> </p>
<h3>[Stardate 49487.8, Captain’s Office, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>Garak’s strategy seemed clear: answer only what was specifically asked, providing no additional context, letting what would be drawn out be drawn out, offering nothing freely. Sisko’s patience with such a game would be limited under ideal circumstances—and a mass unauthorized boarding by a terrorist cell, followed by a successful jailbreak (thank goodness Odo’s security team had reported only one serious injury), and <em> then </em> by an exploded civilian freighter that had been attempting to flee were... far from ideal.</p><p>“Please, Sir, maybe I can fill in some gaps.” This parley needed a translator. The frequencies at which Sisko and Garak communicated were too disparate for any productive result. This could only end with Tolan getting traumatized (again), Sisko in the infirmary with a tension headache (again), and Garak in a holding cell at <em> best </em> , if someone didn’t intervene. “That man, the one who escaped, he’s… He’s Tolan’s, ah, direct progenitor.” He couldn’t say it again, that <em> word</em>, the identity he’d claimed for himself.</p><p>“Atherin Gidd,” Sisko supplied.</p><p>“It’s an alias. The real Atherin Gidd died years ago, on Bajor, right before the withdrawal. I’ve identified our recent guest as Dorval Ner, formerly Legate Ner,” Odo interrupted, and Julian had the absurd thought that he’d kiss the smooth face into its natural amorphous state in reward for the distraction. Sisko’s eyes moved off of him and appraised Odo instead, and Julian was awash in relief that made his ears buzz. Odo turned his padd around briefly to show off a Cardassian security bulletin bearing a familiar face. “He is alleged to have concocted a Bajoran transporter <em> accident </em> to cover up the assassination of a political rival during the Occupation. He fled the charges and consolidated a base of support among other political exiles in Mathenite space.” Odo pulled the padd close, eyes tracking with furious speed. “He was married. Wife deceased, date and cause unknown. He has one son on record, military, unspecified—usually that means Obsidian Order. Missing in action and assumed dead—a casualty of the joint offensive.”</p><p>“Have you been able to figure out what he was doing <em> here</em>?” Sisko pressed.</p><p>“The nature of Ner’s mission, it seems, was two-fold. He wasn’t in custody long enough to allow us to get very far in the interview, but he was here to recover the child, <em> his </em> child, so he claims, and also, I believe, to assess the threat level of the last remaining Obsidian Order operative, or perhaps to glean something from Garak about the fate of Enabran Tain’s secret fleet. I’m assuming this can only mean that the True Way is planning something. Something big. And I’m guessing they’ve already infiltrated the Council to some extent.”</p><p>“<em>Already</em>?” Garak laughed. Tolan, who had fallen back into a light doze, snorted and shifted in Garak’s arms. Garak absently offered a thumb for him to nibble. “The True Way has always, as ever, infiltrated <em> everywhere</em>,” he continued more quietly, and Julian winced in sympathy when the baby gave an annoyed huff and his teeth came down on Garak’s first knuckle. Garak gave no sign that it bothered him. “But <em> officially</em>, any open acolyte to the True Way has been, and is especially now, a fugitive, considered a terrorist, an enemy of the State. Outmoded social hierarchies based on bloodlines don’t generally play well with civilian governments headed by former dissidents to military rule. But Central Command was <em> full </em> of sympathizers, as was the Order. There are surely a few in and around the Council.”</p><p>“Valuable intelligence that would have been more valuable still some weeks ago,” Sisko replied. He stood from his desk and adjusted his uniform. </p><p>“Captain, Garak <em> had </em> to play dumb for <em> everyone</em>’s safety.” Julian didn’t know where the defense had come from, or why he’d felt the need to give it voice. It had simply bubbled forth. Sisko’s answering smile was grim, disbelieving, but Julian pressed on: “This sudden incursion by the True Way is proof of that.”</p><p>“Orchestrating convincing attempts on my own life to dissuade potential assassins becomes much more difficult with a little one around,” Garak admitted. Behind him, Odo barked a low noise that could have been a huff or a laugh. He crossed his arms and seemed to settle into a physical approximation of begrudging amusement. “I wasn’t <em> supposed </em> to know about the coup, but as I <em> did</em>, it seemed prudent—and more than that, my duty—to keep it to myself. When the man claiming to be Atherin Gidd mentioned confirming Tolan’s birth records with Central Command, I considered that this could have been a security test of some kind by the fledgling civilian government, and I took steps to confirm the messenger’s identity.”</p><p>“How anxious could the civilian government be to test the loyalty of a simple tailor?” Sisko raised an eyebrow, leaned his weight on his hands on his desk.</p><p>Garak blinked a few times, and Julian recognized it as an effort to quell exasperation or at least package it in something less offensive than a series of eye rolls. “This station is a hub for information as much as it is for transit and other commerce. If the new Cardassian government wanted to conceal the coup until they had gained more stable footing—it’s an unprecedented consolidation of civilian power, after all—then it makes sense that they would need to track the spread of information. Deep Space Nine is a node through which all of Starfleet as well as the Bajorans would shortly become aware of the shift. I expected perhaps a sternly worded warning to keep my mouth shut, which could have been securely delivered in person rather than via any, hmm, <em> carefully monitored </em> channel of communication.” Garak raised and turned his head, caught Odo’s gaze briefly, who snorted and looked away. And then Garak adjusted the baby in his arms, angling a serious frown at Julian. “I didn’t anticipate any threat to Tolan.”</p><p>“And what should <em> I </em> anticipate when I <em> do </em> finally make contact with the Detapa Council to clear up this mess?” Sisko turned his attention back to Julian.</p><p>“A lie, Sir,” Julian said. No hesitation. “A big one.” </p><p>“Doctor…” </p><p>Garak stepped close, and took a moment to gentle Tolan carefully into Julian’s arms, eyeing Julian with more alarm than he’d shown at any time in the past two days. Julian tried for a smile. It didn’t quite come. When Sisko cleared his throat, Julian held Tolan’s warm lump of a form close, straightened and met his Captain’s gaze again.</p><p>“I had no reason to believe that either of Tolan’s parents were living. I accepted him from the care of someone who claimed to have witnessed their deaths. So, with my knowledge and consent, Garak filed a false birth record with the Cardassian government a few months back… for… his own son. I wanted to retain custody. I wanted Tolan to remain here on the station with me. Filing for adoption, as a single human serving in Starfleet, would not have been successful. Tolan would have ended up in a government shelter.”</p><p>“I wonder who put <em> that </em> idea in your head,” Odo grumbled.</p><p>“There’s precedent,” Julian insisted, quietly. He sighed heavily. Sisko’s brows were drawn but he was otherwise unreadable now. “I can’t imagine giving Tolan up to the care of the State, or anyone else, not after all this time. He’s <em> happy</em>. I <em> love </em> him. Had I played this by the book and been rejected… would <em> you </em> have intervened? Or would you have let them take him away from me?”</p><p>“You’ll never know,” Sisko replied, “because you <em> didn’t </em> play this by the book. And at the very <em> least</em>, your record is going to reflect that. Ner is a fugitive. The Cardassian government, whatever its form, will likely not insist on restoring Tolan to Ner’s custody, but we have to consider—”</p><p>“<em>Restoring</em>?” Julian spluttered, and the baby in his arms woke and tensed in his arms, squirming and murmuring soft cries of confused distress. Julian rocked and hugged him close. Heat shot straight from his throat into his eyeballs. “He never <em> was </em> in Ner’s custody! Ner sent Tolan’s mother to Pentath III to live out her days in a mining encampment! Don’t you see? Tolan’s a <em> spare</em>, he’s <em> insurance</em>, and that’s his only use to Ner, now that the rest of his family is dead—to carry on the great tradition of his glorious bloodline in the True Way!”</p><p>Immovable calm, decisive certainty radiated from Sisko as he straightened to his full height and held out his hand. “Lieutenant, you are hereby temporarily relieved of duty. The security of this station has been compromised as a direct result of your actions. You purposefully obfuscated your adopted child’s parentage and falsified medical records, and as a result, we couldn’t even anticipate the threat until it was on our doorstep. A determination on your commission will be made after Starfleet conducts a full investigation of this incident.”</p><p>Tolan wailed as Julian freed a hand, jostling the baby’s weight to the other arm. Julian ripped his pips from his collar and flung them in one smooth motion. Reflexively, miraculously, Sisko caught them in mid-air. “There. I should have let you take them from me a year ago.”</p><p>“You’re <em> dismissed</em>, Doctor Bashir.”</p><p> </p>
<h3>[Stardate 49488.0, Private Quarters, Corridor H5-F, Level 5, Habitat Ring, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>It had taken hours to resettle the baby. Initially, Julian had gone down with him, cocooning him, soothing him with shaky caresses to the divot in his little forehead, whispering promises in the darkness, that he would figure this out, that he would keep Tolan safe, no matter what, and they would always be together. Lies, lies, lies, that there was nothing to fear, that everything would turn out all right. That no one would get hurt. </p><p>When the fussing had quieted and the breathing had evened out and the tiny eyelashes had ceased their fluttering, Julian planted one more kiss to the dark, smooth hair before returning to the main living area, to the sofa where the asteroid that had catastrophically impacted their lives had landed some hours before.</p><p>He didn’t even look up when he heard the chime. “Come in,” he offered weakly.</p><p>Still, he didn’t raise his eyes. He didn’t need to. He kept his head in his hands. He felt the warm weight depress the seat of the sofa directly next to him and the warmer weight of a hand on his knee.</p><p>“Don’t talk,” he pleaded in a whisper. “I don’t want to talk.”</p><p>“What <em> do </em> you want?” Garak pitched his question quietly to match Julian’s hushed tone. “What can I do?”</p><p>Acid rage boiled up in Julian’s chest, whistling <em> Haven’t you done enough? </em> But behind it was the raw emptiness of despair, the knowledge that he had made his own bed. “You can leave… I want to be alone,” he managed finally on a truly embarrassing croak. He drew in a shuddering breath and sat up straight. When he turned in his seat to address Garak, he did it with the intention of repeating himself with all the composure he could muster.</p><p>He didn’t know what he had expected. A coy, cunning smile? An infuriatingly curious tilt of the head? The sinister glitter of icy blue calculating eyes, perhaps?</p><p>But Garak was <em> searching </em> him, <em> undoing </em> him, and as they looked at one another, Garak’s pupils tracked Julian’s gaze, mirroring back at him. His mouth was open, just a little, and it was all suddenly right there, clear as day, a concern, a <em> warmth</em>, an offer, a… something… </p><p>“Leave,” Julian whispered. Garak didn’t move. The whole Universe was suddenly Garak, the shadows cast by the ridges over his face. His eyes, though partially concealed by those shadows, were truly <em> open</em>, <em> finally </em> open to Julian, <em> revealing</em>, <em> asking</em>, and the bottom lip—just the <em> slightest </em> tremble. Uncertainty, a chance, an opportunity. <em> And another might never come. </em> “Don’t…” Julian swallowed. Then there was sadness, resignation, as Garak’s eyes tracked downward just slightly, and he pulled away just a little. When Julian heard his own voice again, it was hoarse to his ears, conflicted. He barely recognized himself. “<em>Don’t leave </em>…”</p><p>It was Julian who reached out and grabbed, Julian who felt the surprised puff of air against his mouth as he crushed Garak to him. They broke apart after a brief, hard, clumsy kiss. Julian heard panting, belatedly realized he was making the noise, and only moments later the telltale fuzz of hyperventilation encroached from his periphery.</p><p>“It will be all right,” Garak murmured. Julian didn’t register his own tears until the rough pads of Garak’s thumbs were swiping under his eyes. “Here... here…” And Garak kissed him back, gently, sweetly, impossibly tentative, as if he was certain Julian would dash from his arms at any moment. </p><p>None of this was anything like fantasy Garak. None of this was anything like the Garak who had held an intruder at bay with playful malice mere hours before. Here was nothing plain, nothing simple.</p><p>But Garak had asked what he wanted.</p><p>“More,” Julian demanded, and he pressed forward. His hands dug into and twisted the fabric of Garak’s tunic. “More.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>First base! ALL RIGHT! WE DID IT. We did two (2) kisses.</p><p>As always... I am THIRST for your comments! </p><p>Am I crushing your dreams as thoroughly as I am crushing my own? TELL ME ABOUT MYSELF.</p><p>Someone said to give the people what they want but what I heard apparently was FLY THIS PLANE INTO THE GROUND.</p><p>With regard to external validation currency, this dancerie accepts hateration AND holleration.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>In this canon-divergent AU, the main events of <em>Dr. Bashir, I Presume</em> take place much earlier in the chronology of the series, during the year 2371. The main plot arc of this work takes place a year later, in 2372.</p><p><b>IMPORTANT:</b> I've changed the rating on this sucker. I was just thinking to myself. You know what this as-yet pretty wholesome kidfic could use? PROBABLY SOME POOORRRRRN. There's a section at the end here that's 100% explicit filth. If that's not your thing, stop at the heading for Stardate 49605.4. You won't miss anything other than a romp.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3>[Stardate 49601.9, Captain’s Office, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>He was invited to sit, and so he sat. His pips were on Sisko’s desk. How heavy they looked.</p><p>Julian made all of the appropriate noises at all the appropriate moments over a span of time that he would only retroactively be able to figure. Remembered, the beginning of the conversation would be overlaid with ringing, with fuzz, although Julian’s near-perfect hearing certainly didn’t allow for an occurrence, however brief, of tinnitus. Sometime later, he would realize that, up to a point, he had only really been paying attention to the brassy gleam of his pips on the desk, and the delicate, easy steepling of Ben Sisko’s long fingers right next to them. His imagination would fill in auditory details with static and meaningless din.</p><p>“We’re not <em> losing </em> you to the Cardassians, are we, Doctor?”</p><p>Julian’s muscles all complained and constricted as one; he tapped his foot once, twice to put off a toe cramp. The gleam of the pips sharpened and then went streaked and amorphous. Beyond the initial pleasantries, these words were the first Julian would <em> truly </em> remember hearing and understanding. What he <em> should </em> have done was match Sisko’s relaxed smile. It was just a joke, after all, a harmless one, but like many of Sisko’s jokes, it was also a stealthy reconnoiter of existing defenses. And Julian should have known that and not given himself away. His bottom lip tensed for a moment. He knew he should not answer, not quite yet. “Not any more than we’ve lost <em> you </em> to the Bajorans, Sir.”</p><p>Someone with less control might have scowled, and in fact Julian was used to getting paid for his snark in kind, but Sisko only smiled <em> wider </em> and his eyes seemed to dance with amusement. It was always difficult to tell with the Captain—the difference between delighted interest and sardonic aggression was infinitesimal.</p><h3>Julian Bashir’s Personal Log, Stardate 49602.8</h3><p><em> Tolan is on the edge of speech despite very little direct guidance from me. I think he’s trying to decide what to call me. He recognizes my name, but the voiced [ </em> <em> /ʤ/] is giving him trouble, and he’s a little perfectionist in his way, doesn’t like to fuss about with repeated errors. I wonder where he gets that from. [redacted] [log pause] I suppose I could have been encouraging ‘Dad’ or ‘Daddy’ or even ‘Pops’.  </em></p><p>
  <em> [redacted] [log pause]  </em>
</p><p><em> I think it’s better if </em> <b> <em>he</em> </b> <em> decides who and what I am to him.  </em></p><p> </p><h3>[Stardate 49604.5, Replimat, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>“—Bashir? <em> Doctor</em>.”</p><p>Julian blinked, and the image of Garak’s annoyed expression remained briefly on the inside of his eyelids: the ocular ridges drawn and wavy, the eyes wide and questioning, the pupils pinned and accusatory, the mouth in a tight pout, chin jutted forward. Julian found somewhere else to look—his own hands, curled tightly and twitching around a too-hot mug of Tarkalean tea.</p><p>“Sorry, Garak. Lots on my mind.” He reached up and fiddled with one of the pips at his collar absently. Had he ever been so aware of them before?</p><p>“Clearly,” Garak sniffed. Tolan, who had claimed the area beneath the replimat table Julian and Garak shared as a sort of improvised fort, gave Julian’s left foot a not-so-gentle tap and let out a not-so-gentle hiss in mimicry of Garak’s annoyance.</p><p>“We were talking about walking?” Julian ventured.</p><p>“Some minutes ago,” came the clipped reply. And then Garak sighed. “My dear Doctor.” Julian looked up at that, and Garak was suddenly smiling, looking sneakily keen in a way that plucked Julian’s voice out and left his throat dry until he cleared it. <em> What a thing this is, to want him so. Mustn’t be so obvious. </em> “He’ll walk soon, and more than that, he’ll <em> run</em>.”</p><p>“I can barely keep up with his crawling!” Julian managed, half-groaning, half-laughing. He took a peek beneath the table and waggled his foot at Tolan in mock-accusation. “Always darting this way and that like a little gecko!”</p><p>“Bee?” Tolan replied, blinking up at Julian, all wide-eyed innocence.</p><p>“Yes, <em> you</em>,” Julian grumbled indulgently.</p><p>“Some textured holds installed to his full height on a wall in a designated area of your quarters will encourage him to stand. Young Cardassians find the motions of climbing natural and empowering.”</p><p>“Oh, he’s already an <em> excellent </em> climber.” Julian couldn’t keep all of the dry ruefulness out of his tone. He was thinking of Kukalaka, regularly abused, and about broken photo displays and trinkets that had fallen victim to Tolan’s ambitious recent explorations of high shelves.</p><p>“Of course he is,” Garak replied primly. But then he shot Julian a slow smile across the table and Julian’s thoughts were all obliterated. Julian grinned back helplessly. <em> I’m in trouble. Oh, I’m in danger of being lost, all right. </em></p><p> </p><h3>[Stardate 49601.9, Captain’s Office, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>“My <em> son </em> is Cardassian, Captain,” Julian backpedaled, away from the awful light in Sisko’s eyes. “I wanted to ensure that he would have a way home at some point in the future, should he desire to return to the Union.”</p><p>“You seem certain that Garak will resolve the matter of his exile.”</p><p>“Eventually. Certain enough to take the chance. Certain enough to choose that way over the alternative for Tolan.”</p><p>“The alternative would have been handing Tolan over to a facility on Prime—returning him home.”</p><p>“Not to his <em> home</em>,” Julian scoffed. He released a caged breath and successfully fought the urge to stand and start pacing. “He would have been ostracized from society as an orphan. And now… Well, I can hardly anticipate that he’ll be treated any better there <em> now</em>, if the truth is known. Ner’s a fugitive—it’s a damn sight worse than exile, wouldn’t you agree?”</p><p>“Hm.” Sisko quirked an eyebrow. “For all the noise you’ve made about your son’s identity as a Cardassian, you sure don’t want to see him treated as one, not even by his own people.”</p><p>“And? Perhaps his identity as a Cardassian is increasingly at odds with his identity as my son. Fine. I’ll give you that. There are things that still need to be worked out. But I’m not going to surrender him to the Cardassian government. Or to Dorval Ner and the True Way. Or to you, Sir. And you’ll have to threaten me with something much more serious than taking my <em> buttons </em> away to force me to reconsider.”</p><p>Sisko slid the pips across his desk toward Julian, gently, slowly. “You’ve already sacrificed plenty for these <em> buttons</em>, Doctor. And I know it’s not fair.” He gave a small smile, a sad one, and Julian knew that this was as close as he would come to a direct apology from his commanding officer. “Life isn’t fair. And Starfleet will no doubt continue to ask much of you, as it does of me, as it does of us all. I’m not going to ask you to choose between being loyal to the Federation and protecting your son! But loyalty to the Federation shouldn’t be difficult. It shouldn’t be a trial. Part of my job is to make sure that you never have to <em> make </em> such a choice, or at least that the choice is clear.”</p><p>“But Sir, when Rugal—”</p><p>“A <em> different </em> situation altogether, Doctor.” Sisko extended a hand and indicated the offered pips with a stiffness that would brook no further argument. Julian hesitated only for a moment. He picked them up, deftly fastening them, one, and then, two, in their regulated space on his collar. “Let’s talk more about <em> your </em> situation, yours and Tolan’s. The civilian government has requested his return.”</p><p>“Sir, you <em> can’t </em>—”</p><p>“The Council was initially impressed with you, and with Mister Garak. It seemed to them that the filing of Tolan’s records had all been part of some elaborate ruse to draw Ner out of hiding. It’s a ploy they would love a chance to repeat, using Tolan as the bait in an environment they can more easily control.”</p><p>“He’s my <em> son</em>! I won’t let—”</p><p>“Will you <em> let </em> me <em> finish</em>, Doctor Bashir?”</p><p>Julian folded his arms but silenced himself with an effort.</p><p>“I told them no,” Sisko said, returning to his conversational tone. Julian’s eyelids fluttered as a great whoosh of air escaped him, his formerly tense limbs awash in sudden relief. “I disabused them of the notion that you ever had any intention other than protecting the child.” Julian noticed that Captain Sisko had not included Garak in that particular disabusement. “And besides,” Sisko continued, just as calmly, “while the Council may want Tolan as a security asset, what they want more is actual security. The plague on Pentath III has gotten well out of control, and the Cardassians don’t have the ships available to protect their medical convoys from Klingon raids.”</p><p>“One more day,” Julian sighed. “If we had had one more <em> day </em> on that planet, Rudellian fever wouldn’t even have had a chance to infect the Cardassians.”</p><p>“Starfleet is planning to send escorts for the convoys, once the Cardassians have organized the aid. I’ve offered up the <em> Defiant</em>… and Lieutenant Commander Worf.” </p><p>“Worf?” Julian felt his nose wrinkle, but he didn’t push it into any real protest. “Fighting fire with fire, eh?”</p><h3>Julian Bashir’s Personal Log, Stardate 49602.8</h3><p><em> I return to normal duties tomorrow. Between the endless interviews with the security taskforce and attending to a backlog of research interests, I’ve been preparing for Tolan’s first birthday. Of course, I don’t know exactly when it’s supposed to be, and I’ve been struggling to pick a day. A year on Cardassia Prime doesn’t add up to a Terran year, nor does it convert easily to Stardate reckoning. I could keep track of it while he grows up here, but I’m worried he’ll resent me for all the needless difficulty of it year to year. [redacted] [log pause] Garak is only tossing out breadcrumbs, as usual. Do Cardassians even celebrate birthdays in that traditional, rotational sense? Garak knows </em> <b> <em>mine</em> </b> <em> at least. [redacted] [log pause] His only direct feedback so far is that I’m going about this in a deplorably </em> <b> <em>human</em> </b> <em> way.  </em></p><p> </p><h3>[Stardate 49605.2, Private Quarters, Corridor H5-F, Level 5, Habitat Ring, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>It was a clumsy bit of misdirection, to stall, to keep Garak from making the by-now-routine swift escape after handing off a tired baby, whom Julian had settled with guarded hope in the cot in the nursery room. </p><p>It was a sad business that Garak must have seen right through, this flimsy distraction, but he stopped his retreat in the living area and took the padd that Julian all but shoved into his hands. He sat on the sofa in Julian’s quarters with a small frown. On the padd were Bajoran casual stylings, hastily selected. During the investigation, Julian’s interest in expanding his civilian wardrobe had been piqued. Or at least, that’s what he told Garak. <b> <em>So</em> </b> <em> flimsy. This </em> <b> <em>is</em> </b> <em> desperate, even for me</em>. </p><p>A distance had opened up between them, a cold chasm, during the investigation, invisible to all but the two of them.</p><p>Garak hadn’t disclosed anything of importance to Julian over the long, tense weeks. Julian was aware that Garak had been interviewed several times. And perhaps he’d restrained himself out of care and concern for Julian. If anything, he’d been seeing Tolan even more frequently than before. And Tolan certainly didn’t seem to sense that anything was amiss between them. </p><p>Sisko had corrected the ‘clerical error’ obscuring Tolan’s true parentage, cleared that right up with the civilian government. If Garak had hoped for a swift end to exile with the changing of the guard following the obliteration of the Obsidian Order, those hopes, Julian believed, must have certainly been dashed when Sisko waved the forgery right under the Cardassian government’s nose... especially considering what had turned out to be obscured by it: a connection to a public enemy, Dorval Ner and the True Way. <em> People have been known to disappear for less</em>, Julian recalled Odo’s stern commentary on the rigidity of Cardassian society. But of course, that had been in the time when the Obsidian Order still ruled all through covert efficiency.</p><p>Julian wondered what, if anything, Garak was being blamed for with regard to Tolan’s records. And Julian wondered if Garak blamed him in turn. Their lunches had continued as normal, lively banter persisted, their manner of splitting care of Tolan between them, between the demands of the investigation, between the demands of Garak’s business, between the demands of the backlog of Julian’s research—all of it had proceeded remarkably smoothly, all things considered. But there hadn’t been so much as one hinted <em> invitation</em>, a lingering caress, and certainly no more kissing. </p><p>Garak had seemed so fond that otherwise terrible evening (when Julian had worried that he might be in imminent danger of losing Tolan, losing his commission—losing everything, or, almost everything, that mattered). Garak had seemed so <em> affected</em>, almost helpless in his concern for Julian in a way that was utterly disarming. The kissing, too, <em> that </em> had been <em> plenty </em> disarming. But <em> that </em> Garak had made so brief an appearance that Julian was starting to wonder if he’d imagined the whole thing.</p><p>“The question is not whether I <em> can </em> make these garments for you, Doctor,” Garak groused from the sofa. “The question is whether I <em> should</em>.” </p><p>There was only one way to find out. It was time to be bold. Julian was good at being bold.</p><p>He sat on the sofa next to Garak and shuffled in close. Garak had been in the process of placing the padd down on the table but Julian reached out to still his hand, covering it with his own as it gripped the padd’s edge. “Aren’t the colors lovely, at least?”</p><p>“Doctor.” Garak turned his head only a fraction. Instead of meeting Julian’s searching eyes, he stared stonily at Julian’s hand over his.</p><p>“Are you certain the patterns don’t please?” Julian leaned in smoothly, making his intentions clear. Garak didn’t flinch or move away, but he closed his eyes, no other part of his expression changing, and he sighed very quietly when Julian pressed a soft, questioning kiss to the side of an ocular ridge.</p><p>“Doctor,” Garak said again, this time in a tight whisper, almost a rasp.</p><p>“Garak.” Julian released Garak’s hand and raised his own to give an encouraging caress to Garak’s cheek. Garak set the padd down and allowed his face to be turned but did not open his eyes. “Elim,” Julian tried. Garak remained still and didn’t visibly react. Julian brought his other hand up to Garak’s other cheek, but just as he saw the first flickering of <em> something </em> tumble over the otherwise expressionless face, Garak grabbed him firmly by the wrists and opened his eyes. The normally clear blue of his irises seemed muddied in the low light, stormy.</p><p>“You might have lost everything,” Garak said, and he was uncharacteristically halting, hesitant.</p><p>“Everything is fine. I haven’t lost anything,” Julian replied, astonished and hurt as Garak’s hold on his wrists tightened fractionally and his hands were forcibly lowered into his own lap. Garak did put several centimeters of distance between them then, and none-too-subtly, though he didn’t move to get up from the sofa and immediately leave. “Well, I guess that’s not true. I thought there was something… something here. And I do feel that maybe... I’ve lost that.” Julian swallowed, squinting to gauge Garak’s reaction to his words. Garak was looking down at the padd again, and his adorned jaw was flexing subtly. “Are you angry with me?” Julian fought to stifle the frantic note that was starting to make itself obvious. “I tried to protect you. I kept it up, you know, that I’d talked you into filing those records.”</p><p>“I knew you would. You might have lost <em> everything</em>,” Garak repeated, and he smiled, and it was more of a grimace, really. Julian hadn’t seen such pain in his face since the wire had nearly taken his sanity and his life. “By design. My dear Doctor, don’t you see?” Garak shook his head and seemed to gather himself, prepare and compose himself with a deep breath before turning to face Julian again. “The Order is gone. And I am much changed, as is the Cardassia I have served. Tolan is the only future for my people that I can touch and shape, the only hope, the only home that I can recognize anymore. And you…”</p><p>“Yes?” Julian encouraged him quietly. He leaned in again, just a little, waiting, but suddenly impatient. He resisted the urge to bounce his knee.</p><p>“You are an impossible future, with your Federaji idealism somehow still miraculously intact, even now.” Garak didn’t say it unkindly, not quite, but it was almost a drawl, almost as if ‘idealism’ was a sinister euphemism for some fatal flaw, albeit one that couldn’t be helped. “And in my selfishness, I tried to strip it from you. I wanted to make you like me, a man alone, a doomed man. I have time with Tolan, and I have lunches with you. And I thought, perhaps, if you were limited to the same horizon, it might make the future I wanted a little less impossible.”</p><p>“You <em> wanted </em> Starfleet to find out about the forgery.” Julian blinked, processing the information as it dawned. “You <em> knew </em> I would take responsibility for it.” He released a breath he hadn’t been aware he had been holding. “You were sloppy on purpose. You left a trail. That’s how he found us.”</p><p>“Had I known about Ner, I would never—”</p><p>“How can I believe that?” Julian laughed harshly, otherwise frozen. The moment, once luscious with promise, had gone brittle, cracked. Julian blinked again, as if waking from a dream. The ridges around Garak’s eyes came down and seemed to protrude more, shadowing some of the emotion contained in his gaze. But he squinted with what looked very convincingly like contrition.</p><p>“You can’t believe that,” Garak replied. “Of course you can’t.”</p><p>“I’ve already forgiven you for <em> so much</em>.”</p><p>“Yes,” Garak agreed, voice flat.</p><p>“And yet you <em> still </em>—”</p><p>“<em>Yes</em>. I still would have ruined you to have you. An exile for three, somewhere else, not under Federation control. Away from this terrible station. Another life for us. And perhaps, someday...”</p><p>Garak trailed off, but Julian had a feeling he knew what Garak had been about to say, what he couldn’t finally say. Garak didn’t seem to have the heart to give it voice again, to put the increasingly hopeless fantasy of a triumphant return to his home into words. Julian was speechless too.</p><p>It was indescribable, the conflicted jumble of Julian’s feelings. He’d never felt anything like it. Always, with previous lovers, the affection and care and good intentions had all been obvious, uncomplicated, and enough to sustain an attachment, until they invariably were not. Julian felt a pang of queasy self-pity as he recalled Thom Guerette’s easy, untroubled smile and Palis’ light, carefree laughter at the same time. There was not a malicious, underhanded fibre in either of them. And in both attachments, and many more, Julian had squashed and denied his own dissatisfaction, his own boredom, until it had grown large enough to block out the light of the stars, until it had threatened to crush him, suffocate him, until there was really no getting around it. At least with Thom he had kept things reasonably casual and deescalation had proven easy enough—a lesson he had learned the hard way with and from Palis.</p><p>An entanglement with Garak could never be easy, simple, straightforward. And Garak perhaps could never be known as thoroughly as Palis or Thom or anyone else. And what trust could <em> ever </em> exist with someone like Elim Garak? If Julian’s relationship with Palis had been a tunnel with the promise of light at the end, and his arrangement with Thom a playground on an open field, then what existed between Julian and Garak was a hall of mirrors. Broken mirrors. Shards only partially revealed their own hazardous edges and only partially reflected those who examined them. The way forward was uncertain, but so too was the way back.</p><p>
  <em> Back to what? </em>
</p><p>Garak had made a fool of him, and Julian hated few things more than feeling this foolish, supremely duped. There was anger, there was indignation, but beyond that there was the fascination that had made Julian so vulnerable to begin with, an insistent interest that remained unaltered in its intensity even in this moment of ultimate betrayal. And Garak’s distress was for once seemingly naked, and as they stared at one another for stretching, silent seconds, Julian was reminded of when he had long ago pressed Garak for the location of the remote that controlled his implant. </p><p>“Do you regret it?” Julian asked finally, and he felt like he was giving in, giving up. Did he even <em> want </em> an answer?    </p><p>“<em>Yes</em>,” Garak replied, in a thick tone that was almost unrecognizable but revealed itself as surrender. And then Garak leaned in. Garak reached for Julian’s face and tugged him close for a soft, tentative kiss, a dry peck, hesitant, soothing. <em> Yes, definitely something </em> <b> <em>like</em> </b> <em> surrender. But more dangerous. I can’t trust it. I can’t trust </em> <b> <em>him</em></b><em>. Oh, his mouth… his taste! </em></p><p>“I shouldn’t believe you,” Julian whispered against Garak’s lips, but he let the embrace deepen, tipped his head and closed his eyes and reached blindly, crushing himself awkwardly against Garak, twining his fingers into smooth, slightly oily hair, greedily inhaling the subtle, rich, entirely unique smell of Garak. They kissed and gasped into each other’s mouths until they were both breathless.</p><p>“You should never believe me, dear,” Garak panted when they finally broke apart. “You should never believe anyone, or anything, not entirely.” He tipped his face forward and pressed the cartilaginous edges of what Julian had embarrassingly only recently learned was called a <em> chufa </em> —the thermoregulating spoonlike indentation possessed by all Cardassians—to Julian’s smooth forehead. “Your <em> warmth</em>!” Garak exclaimed quietly, almost in a hiss, breath puffing out shakily, as if he had been suddenly but pleasantly shocked by a surge of invisible energy. “Your exquisite warmth…”</p><p>“I’ll share it with you,” Julian whispered. He surged forward again, slid his hands over Garak’s shoulders as he pressed close, and then slid them back up along the prominent lines of Garak’s thick neck ridges, testing the tough scaling. "Even though you might not deserve it," Julian said fondly, failing to contain a playful smile. Julian kissed Garak roughly, demanding, pressing into him, pressing him back against one arm of the sofa. </p><p>This was <em>insane</em>. What was he doing? Garak had just admitted to lying to him, <em>again</em>, and betraying him, trying to <em>hurt</em> him, <em>ruin</em> his career. <em>He wanted us to himself</em>, a small voice from a dark corner of Julian’s mind asserted. <em>He wanted a family.</em> <em>He chose us. He chose us over everything, even Cardassia...</em></p><p>Garak’s hands had initially floundered for purchase but he finally wrestled Julian away from him just enough to speak again. “It seems I never get what I deserve.” There was that embrace again, electric and unfamiliar, forehead to forehead. “Not when it comes to you, Julian.”</p><p>“The bed,” Julian grunted, on the edge of temper, on the edge of tears, on the edge of something sweet and hot and dark and unfathomably deep. He never wanted to hear anyone else say his name ever again. And that was the only thing he wanted to hear from Garak, for now at least. Julian teetered, staring into the uncertain depth of this possibility, into Garak’s wide and wild eyes, knowing that he was edging closer to something from which there could be no easy return. He leaned in again, scraping his teeth along the ornamental ridging leading to one of Garak’s ears, which pulled a very soft, very delightful moan from Garak. “Now. Come on, before I change my mind.”</p><p> </p><h3>[Stardate 49605.4, Private Quarters, Corridor H5-F, Level 5, Habitat Ring, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>Julian had no idea how proper or even pleasant it might seem to Cardassian sensibilities, what they were doing.</p><p>What Julian was doing was straddling Garak’s thighs. Julian was bracing his hands against the wall as he leaned over Garak. Julian’s cock was penetrating, well, <em> something</em>, something dripping wet and slippery, low but front-facing on Garak’s abdomen, that had been revealed by the gentle parting and swelling of the cloacal patch (<em>that </em> part Julian was familiar with, at least), the smooth slide of something out and up (less familiar with that part). </p><p>Julian didn’t really push so much as he wriggled. His glutes were tensed and trembling as he rubbed himself all over and into Garak. Julian wasn’t quite certain how this was even <em> working</em>. That is, it felt nice for <em> him</em>, certainly, and promised to feel nicer and nicer and nicer and nicer until all the niceness of it all would become, oh, just nicely unbearable in its way, Julian was sure. </p><p>What had emerged from Garak’s slick and lovely mystery and tipped up with its tapered lovely tip against the third and lowest spoon-shaped ridge on Garak’s lovely body wasn’t quite as long as what Julian had stuffed in its place, although it <em> had </em> looked awfully girthy, there near its base. It certainly felt excellent, fat and squished and slick against Julian’s slightly undulating belly. Was this enough for Garak?  </p><p>“Good?” Julian asked, shuddering. It was intense, the slowness of it, the mash of their bodies together, the grind and slip and squelch. And it was very, <em> very </em> different from any of Julian’s previous sexual encounters, numerous and varied as they were. He looked down at Garak’s face. Garak was nodding wordlessly up at him, his mouth working reflexively, almost like a fish gasping out of water, or perhaps as if the very air had taken on an intoxicating taste. A hidden sensory gland somewhere in there, within the internal structures of the throat or the nose, perhaps? </p><p>Garak’s hair was somewhat mussed, his eyes beseeching, and all those ridges seemed all bulgy and dark, as if flushed, swollen. It gave Garak the look of someone entirely overwhelmed and out of his element, out of control. Julian laughed, he couldn’t help it, at the absurdity of this: he had never imagined Garak glassy-eyed and quiet like some young virginal thing to whom the significance of sexual contact was emotionally inflated. But then, Julian didn’t know anything about Cardassian mores around sex. Perhaps it <em> was </em> so important. He felt bad for laughing again, quieter this time, his bracing lean against the wall slipping slightly. “Are you… quite sure?” Julian pressed breathlessly, enjoying his limited capacity for speech, lording it just a little over Garak’s comparative and surprising coital muteness. He had expected the normally verbose Cardassian to chat right through any encounter, but, Julian supposed, it <em> was </em> deeply flattering that he was a good enough fuck to shut someone like Garak up for a few minutes.</p><p>But just because Garak had been temporarily robbed of his words didn’t mean he couldn’t respond. His hands, which had been clasped around the backs of Julian’s thighs (holding him as close as possible and permitting only limited lateral movement of the hips), slipped up and gave Julian’s ass a few sudden, urgent squeezes. Julian’s eyes squinted shut and he smiled broadly around a theatrical gasp. This noise gave way to something far less pretty and performative, a garbled mutter, when Garak slipped one hand into the crease and dragged downward and under and through—over a shocked and unprepared pucker—and then there were fingers applying steady pressure to Julian’s perineum, <em> just </em> behind his balls, and his squirming became more desperate as he nearly choked on his surprise and pleasure. <em> How did he…? </em></p><p>Julian swore repeatedly, and trembled harder and harder. He clamored loudly and obscenely for the attention of a god, something, anything, to rescue him from the crushing relentless delight of Garak’s sturdy body writhing against his, those prodding fingers, that lovely slippery wetness, the stifling restlessness of Garak’s silence, punctuated only by his ragged breathing. And finally, Julian could only sob as something of a wave crested, a breaking tension so great, so much bigger than him, bigger than them both, having had such a time to build, that, for a moment, even Garak felt far away. <em> Oh no, oh no, I’m lost, I’m lost, I’m lost… </em>    </p><p>He found his way back, gradually, as the crash of his pulse subsided to a steadier thrum. He peeked an eye open. Garak was smiling up at him, open and fond and just a touch amused—very, very, <em> very </em> handsome. “Oh,” Julian sighed, sounding a bit stupid and very young to his own ears, and he let his straining arms relax, allowed himself to collapse completely into Garak’s embrace. Dimly, he wondered if he ought to have let himself come into that orifice in which he was still snugly nestled. He squirmed after a moment, against both the mounting discomfort of his trapped and softening, oversensitized cock and the curiosity of the state in which he had left Garak when he had briefly departed this plane of existence. “Oh, you haven’t,” Julian groaned in dismay as he wriggled himself free. “At least I don’t think so. No?” If that Cardassian tackle worked anything like its human not-quite-equivalent, then it still seemed very urgently unsatisfied indeed, jutting up all lewd and wet and proud against that delicious (and, much to Julian’s delight, extremely sensitive!) indentation right above the groin.</p><p>Garak’s smile widened just a little, but he gave no other response. He just lay there, everted and heaving deep sucking breaths and looking just so adoringly at Julian, every bit of him just emanating that he was just so happy to be here. No, that wouldn’t quite do, not for Julian’s pride. “All right, you. Try to let me know what feels best.” Julian leaned in and groaned his thanks for such a world-destroying orgasm into a sweet, open-mouthed kiss.</p><p>When Julian started to shimmy down on the bed, Garak leaned and strained momentarily, chasing Julian’s mouth, but surrendered himself pretty quickly when Julian pressed him back again with firm caresses to his chest and belly. Oh, scales and ridges and lovely squishy bits. There would be a <em> lot </em> to explore. Later tonight? In the smaller hours of the morning? Some other time? <em> Do I let him stay? </em> A flicker of anxiety darted through Julian’s satisfied relaxation but he dutifully refocused himself. <em> First things first. Please him. I want to please him. I want to make him come. </em></p><p>Ah, and here was this retractable externalia. It smelled somehow sweet and vinegary. Julian gave the bifurcated tip an experimental little lick. My, and so it tasted, too! Like some delicately balanced salad dressing. Hm. Not bad at all! Garak sighed indulgently but didn’t really tense or shift. Not really like a human glans, then. The sensitivity of this organ was differently configured. </p><p>Julian pressed on with his exploration, pushing wet kisses and the flat of his tongue against different areas of the stubby, gooey length. The closer he moved to the base, where it emerged at its glorious fattest from the passage that Julian had so recently enjoyed, the more reaction his ministrations got out of Garak. The thighs trembled, just a little, and then quite a lot, and then there was some sort of vocalization, rumbly and low and not even recognizably Garak, rhythmic and percussive, a kind of intoned rattle. Here, very near the base, on the part that was just barely visible now as this alien cock stuck out at what Julian thought for <em> certain </em> must be its greatest, eagerest length, there was a slight change in texture. It wasn’t necessarily <em> rougher</em>, just a bit less spongy, almost a bit ribbly, like a surface intended to stop the accidental slide of fingers, to encourage traction. When Julian licked there delicately, a fearsome deep hiss tore out of Garak and almost shocked a ceiling-aspirational jump from Julian. He jerked back, alarmed.</p><p>“Oh!” Garak cried, his voice crushed and strangled around all these other <em> sounds </em> that were clacking around in his chest. “That’s—I— <em>Please,</em> <em>Julian</em>…”</p><p>Begging! From <em> this </em> one? Oh, and his name, just how he had wanted to hear it, offered up like a dream that could never come true. Lovely.</p><p>Julian lapped and held on for dear life, reassured and encouraged, and really, even if they were a little frightening, all these agitated, deep sibiliations, reminiscent of a great big angry snake or some mythic reptilian monster, they were gratifying and thrilling in their way, secret noises that Julian would never have guessed anyone would make during sex. Did all Cardassians make such a racket? And here Garak had been so quiet before. Was it just the males? Just near orgasm? <em> Was </em> Garak near orgasm?</p><p>Something shifted under Julian’s lips and he instinctively recognized a pulsing. <em> Ah, good! </em> It was a pulsing that surely meant something was imminent. He brought fingertips to where his mouth had been at the base while quickly sliding up the length. He rubbed the delicious microscaling at the bottom and braced himself for however this would go as his lips closed around the less sensitive tip. He peered up. Garak’s head was tipped back slightly and he had gone totally silent again, but he was mouthing something repeatedly, something in Kardasi, something that was being hesitantly supplied through the UT to Julian alternately as <em> mist </em> or <em> rain</em>.          </p><p>Hot, sweet-sour, thick, thicker than human stuff, and so <em> much </em> of it. And it didn’t come out in jerky little spurts punctuated by jerky little hip movements, either. Garak was completely still, and it was like some floodgate had opened somewhere inside him and everything poured out, and, oh, well, it wasn’t bad, not really, but it was a <em> lot </em> and it was strange, and Julian was snuffling, wet-eyed, trying to swallow it all without gagging. He wouldn’t have done much better if suddenly forced to down a cup of warm raspberry vinaigrette in one or two valiant chugs. But he did his best, finally forcing it all down and raising his head with a loud, sticky-wet gasp, lowering his cheek to the generous swell of Garak’s abdomen right above the cloacal patch. “Holy fuck,” he managed rawly after a moment.</p><p>“My dear,” came the breathless response from above, equal parts laughter and scandalized chastisement. “Let’s not bring any silly mysteries like holiness into this.”</p><p>“If you say so,” Julian chuckled, and he turned his head to deliver a teasing and gentle little bite. Garak’s middle was really so charming, the swell of it, its give, its solidness. <em> Mmm, much better than any pillows I’ve enjoyed on this station. </em> Soon, Julian began to drift.</p><p>He didn’t know how long it had been when he felt shifting, and then he felt himself moved, gentled and tucked in so carefully that he barely struggled back to even half-consciousness for a moment.</p><p>“Sleep,” he heard, in response to his groggy questioning hum. Really, such a convincing voice. Was there any point in arguing? Probably not. </p><p>Julian slept. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I LA LA LA DON'T KNOW LA LA LA WHY I'M LA LIKE THIS.</p><p>Please let me know your thoughts in the comments. Porn? In this plot? At this time of year, at this time of day, in this part of the country, localized entirely within your kitchen!?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Notes: In this canon-divergent AU, the main events of <em>Dr. Bashir, I Presume</em> take place much earlier in the chronology of the series, during the year 2371. The main plot arc of this work takes place a year later, in 2372.</p><p>This whopper of a chapter takes place around the events of <em>Rules of Engagement</em>, featuring a briefly porny interlude, a heaping helping of Chief O’Brien, and the continuing Totally True Bi-Bestie Adventures of Julian Bashir and Jadzia Dax.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3>[Stardate 49634.2, Infirmary, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>“<em>Careful</em>!”</p><p>“I’m <em> being </em> careful!”</p><p>“You’re going to break it off, twisting like that!</p><p>“I know what I’m doing! Just a little…”</p><p>“Oh!”</p><p>“Oh <em> no</em>!”</p><p>“Well, I <em> told </em>you!”</p><p>Julian huffed moistly within the wall panel into which he and Miles O’Brien were partially crammed, both lying on their backs on the floor. Then he scooted and wiggled his way out into the relieving, cold open air of the infirmary, taking the light by which Miles had been working with him. Miles followed a moment later, shoving the small crowd of tools away with irritated little grunts, pulling himself gingerly to his feet. Once standing, he offered Julian a thin smile, but then he winced and rolled his shoulders jerkily. “I’d like to meet the enterprising Cardie <em> genius </em> who decided that half the major conduits in this infirmary should be at ankle height.”</p><p>“Now, now,” Julian chastised softly, absently, not letting anything slice through and wound him, leaving Miles’ thoughtlessness outside of an invisible, protective bubble. He was automatically pulling Miles’ right and dominant arm out by the wrist to extend parallel to the floor, testing his range of motion.</p><p>“Give him a piece of my—<em> Ow</em>! Julian, that <em> hurts</em>!” Julian wasn’t <em> trying </em> to hurt him, of course.</p><p>“Why <em> him</em>?” Julian wanted this interaction to go smoothly and then to end. The innocent chatty lightness he attempted was falling flat. “Cardassian architects and engineers are women more often than not, you know.” <em> Don’t snap. Stay calm. </em> Julian released Miles’ arm and gave his affected shoulder the gentlest pat. Miles scowled and looked uncertain. “You’ve wrenched yourself a bit, that’s all, what with your rough treatment of my conduits.” Julian tried for a jocular eyebrow waggle and thought himself somewhat successful when it pulled an answering eyeroll out of Miles. “Everything’s still in its right place, though. I can give you something for the pain…”</p><p>“Don’t bother,” Miles chuckled gruffly. “I know, I know—No darts for a few days, at least, and definitely no kayaking. Keiko’s here for the week, so I won’t be tempted. But speaking of darts—”</p><p>“Mm?” Julian supplied, he hoped casually. It was suddenly a hard thing, to keep hold of that easy smile, but he clung to it, <em> playing </em> as much as <em> being </em> the doctor. He busied himself with preparing the hypospray that Miles had initially declined but would, Julian knew, with minimal cajoling, accept.</p><p>“Well, it’s just, we haven’t really… I mean, you’re busy, and I’m busy. What I’m trying to… Ah, well, damn it, why did we stop playing anyway?”</p><p>“Ohhh,” Julian mused, in that affable, half-grousing, half-sighing affectation that always sounded flimsily put on to his own ears, but seemed to go a long way in reassuring others, especially Miles. “It <em> is </em> something of a challenge for me these days, scheduling diversions like darts.”</p><p>“Right,” Miles acknowledged, but a stack of deep furrows appeared, wrinkling his ample forehead. He obligingly tilted his chin up and to the side and let Julian apply the hypo with only the softest protesting grunt. “How is he? Your, uh, I mean, the, er…”</p><p>“My son?” </p><p>“Your son.”</p><p>“Doing well. Keeping me busy. There we are. All done. Better?”</p><p>Miles moved his shoulder experimentally, visibly holding his breath. “Ah. Much!” He released a whooshing exhale. For a moment, he even seemed on the brink of a rare <em> Thanks, Julian!</em>, but then Miles just looked up dully, lips slightly parted on the petulance that always attended his various hesitations. He stepped back and bent to retrieve his tools from the floor. He’d clunked the third of seven of them unceremoniously into his satchel when he straightened and clapped his hands together suddenly. “Right,” he began again. “I need to know if you’re still angry with me.”</p><p>Julian couldn’t quite disguise the brief through-the-nose sigh that announced stale but lingering umbrage.</p><p>“So you <em> are </em> still—”</p><p>“Not <em> angry</em>,” Julian insisted. He set aside the spent hypospray, clasped his hands behind his back, and forced himself to look at Miles Edward O’Brien, his erstwhile close friend, calmly making the direct eye contact the moment seemed to require. “What’s to be done?” he asked. “I still haven’t made much progress, you know. With the ketracel white problem. Nowhere near where I was.”</p><p>“I thought we’d agreed: apologies can’t change any of that,” Miles said darkly. He shook it off, though, putting on a bit of a smirk. “You’re alive and I’m alive, right?”</p><p>“It’s true,” Julian admitted. It was also apparently true that Miles needed a few additional sentences to formulate whatever was actually on his mind into actionable coherence.</p><p>“I just want you to know that I <em> wanted </em> to help, when you came back... And of course you went into a warzone as a doctor and came back a <em> father </em> in the span of a week! I really don’t know who else could be so…” Miles laughed, reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. He didn’t exactly seem nervous, but certainly uncomfortable, like he hadn’t anticipated fumbling so much with his words. Julian wondered if he’d actually <em> rehearsed</em>. Perhaps he’d even been <em> coached </em> by Keiko. “I’ve missed… darts. Can’t we just… put it behind us, once and for all?”</p><p>“Well, if that were the only <em> it </em> ...” Julian ventured, and his gaze faltered for a moment. He allowed himself a single, steadying breath before he could raise his eyes to meet Miles’ again. “If it was <em> just </em> destroying my research, or if it was <em> just </em> ignoring my rank and disobeying orders, then who knows? <em> It </em> may well have blown over by now. But, now I’ve adopted a Cardassian. And I’m raising him as a Cardassian. And… I know how you feel about Cardassians.”</p><p>“Ah, <em> Julian</em>. That’s not <em> fair</em>. I haven’t even met him. He’s just a little baby. And, well, he’s <em> yours </em> now, and I would <em> never </em>—”</p><p>“Oh, come on,” Julian scoffed. Heat leapt in a consuming wave up the back of his neck and spread quickly to his ears. The last of his patience steamed into nothing and he stiffened, straightening his posture completely and tilting his head back to deliver an open glare. Miles, for his part, looked suitably chastened before Julian had even really <em> let him have it</em>: “Tolan has it hard enough living on this station without having to hear Cardie-this and Cardie-that. He might learn to hate part of himself from someone like you, a <em> big </em> part that he can’t change and that I wouldn’t want him to. And I can’t afford to take that kind of a risk just so I can once again take up regularly beating you at <em> darts</em>.”</p><p>“Are we just going to go on avoiding each other, then? Just <em> pretending </em> that we were never…” Miles’ vocal chords seemed to seize up, but he gestured emphatically with ceiling-bound eyebrows and rolling wrists.</p><p>“Never <em> what</em>?” Julian laughed. It came out harsh and almost made him cough. “What? <em> Friends</em>? You can’t even say it. You can’t even say I’m your <em> friend</em>. What am I supposed to do with <em> that</em>?”</p><p>A deep frown settled slowly on Miles’ face over several silently counted seconds. “Fine,” he said finally. He reached down and hastily collected the rest of his tools, shoving them into his bag. “Have it your way!” he barked and made a quick exit from the infirmary. Julian stomped after him to the threshold of the promenade.</p><p>“At least send someone else to actually <em> fix </em> that damned conduit!” he called after the swiftly retreating back.</p><p> </p><h3>[Stardate 49658.2, Private Quarters, Corridor H5-F, Level 5, Habitat Ring, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>“<em>Ohh-kay</em>, <em> oh</em>! That’s a bit <em> firmer </em> than I can stand!” Julian exclaimed, and his voice fluctuated between the breathiness of shy laughter and the sharpness and urgency of real pain. “No, no, don’t let <em> go </em> of it, just… here, let me… like <em> before</em>... when you watched me? A little squeezing is fine, but mostly on an upward kind of stroke until I get a bit more… Try not to pull so much on the… I know it’s a little tricky… ah, <em> gently</em>, gently, yes, <em> yesyesyes </em> like <em> that</em>, that’s just <em> excellent</em>…”      </p><p>“A deceptively complicated bit of equipment,” Garak hummed low, for all appearances very happy beneath Julian and appreciative of the view. </p><p>Julian decided that articulateness was overrated. At least he could be counted upon to make a good show of it. “<em>Bit</em>? Now, you… You’re—<em>Oh, that’s very</em>—um, it’s a good thing <em> you’re-a-quick-study</em>—<em>ahh</em>…” Julian gave his hips a slow, luxurious roll, throwing his head back, feeling very, very sexy despite the jumble of his words—but then he shook and hunched over with a hiccupping undignified titter when Garak’s hand slid to the tip of his cock, fingers rubbing and rolling along him just so. <em> And there goes the show... </em></p><p>“It’s a better thing, that you’re such a delight.” A pleasant shiver of embarrassment slid up the backs of Julian’s tensed thighs, and then up and up further still, buzzing his ears, making him dizzy. There wasn’t any talking for some time after that, just grateful, surprised kisses breathlessly pressed to the self-satisfied smirk of this deft-fingered Cardassian sometime-tailor, who touched and learned until Julian felt like he was coming apart at the seams, going to blissful pieces.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“You’re thinking very loudly, my dear.” </p><p>Julian checked himself automatically, lying here curled against Garak’s adorned and somewhat prickly back, with an arm flung over and down Garak’s side, hand pressed, but not too tightly, to the curiously firm scaling that belied the less firm, pleasing softness of the middle. <em> I wonder if he would even understand the concept of curves. That might be a bit offensive to him. </em> Julian gave Garak’s belly an affectionate pat anyway. “I’m fine,” he whispered.</p><p>“Loud,” Garak insisted.</p><p>“I suppose I…” Julian pressed an errant dry smooch to the back of Garak’s neck. “You know about the convoys being sent to Pentath III?”</p><p>“Hmm,” came the affirmative response, lazy and noncommittal. Julian pinched Garak lightly.</p><p>“Of course you do.”</p><p>“Why should you worry about the convoys? Lieutenant Commander Worf seemed so eager for his assignment as escort. Those ships are in uniquely capable and suitably ruthless hands.”</p><p>“And you know about that too?” Julian shook his head, and his smile turned into something of a grimace. “Overheard it in your shop, I take it?”</p><p>“My dear, as dashing a figure as he cuts as a loyal <em> Federaji</em>, Worf is still a Klingon, and Klingons are, by and large, braggarts. I dare say I might have learned of his relish and pride for the assignment from my shop’s door, had I not had a front row seat at Quark’s.”</p><p>“Quark’s, ah, I see.” Julian gave another pinch but soothed it into gentler caresses when Garak made a halfhearted attempt to bat him away. “When was the last time you were even at Quark’s?” Julian dared to nip at Garak’s neck and let slip an exaggerated, playful whine. “And why didn’t you invite me?”</p><p>“I visit Quark’s with embarrassing regularity solely for the pleasure of choking back the watered-down kanar on offer, but only when I’m not otherwise engaged in business, or with you, or…” Garak yawned, and Julian enjoyed it. The lovely belly flexed out, the lovely belly relaxed back in. “...with Tolan.”</p><p>“I suppose,” Julian allowed around an answering yawn. He gave Garak a gentle squeeze. “I’m worried,” he admitted after some moments. “They’re late getting back. It’s… not just Worf. Miles was assigned, too. And I didn’t leave things… Well, it’s just difficult. I don’t <em> want </em> to worry about him. But, you know, Keiko and Molly… I don’t know. It’s… I’m probably being silly.”</p><p>“It is your way,” Garak murmured, and he slid his hand around Julian’s against his body and gripped gently, stilling the twitching fingers. “To worry,” he clarified.</p><p>“I had it out with him recently. And now, I would just hate… Well, it’s just, what if something happens? He’s…”</p><p>“Doctor,” Garak sighed. “Julian,” he corrected himself, even quieter, lingering on the extremely un-Cardassian voiced post-alveolar affricate that opened the given name. Julian ducked his head against the thrill that brought, even now, his <em> name</em>, lightly and specifically accented, whispered in the dark, so tenderly, by a lover. By Elim Garak. Yes, Elim Garak, Julian’s <em> lover</em>, a bonafide <em> lover </em> who was now regularly staying the night, at Julian’s request. It was nearly unfathomable. It was clearly insane. </p><p>It was terribly exciting. </p><p>“I do hesitate to ask, but I would listen. ‘Having it out’ doesn’t strike me to be a particularly pleasant exchange.”</p><p>“It’s not. It wasn’t. He’s… Ah, this is awkward.” Julian disengaged, fully extricated himself, rolled onto his back, stared up at the ceiling. “I felt justified at the time. Because of Tolan. I like Miles, and I tried very hard to be his friend once upon a time… but he’s got a real problem with Cardassians.”</p><p>“Hmm.” Again lazy, and somehow even <em> less </em> committal. A little infuriating, as if to imply <em> Well, who on this station </em> <b> <em>doesn’t</em> </b> <em> have a problem with Cardassians</em>? Julian kicked at the blankets, suddenly restless, feeling stupid.</p><p>“Shit,” Julian sighed. He blinked and resettled himself with an effort. “It’s my fault. It could… It might be nice. Trading advice, stories. Er. Playing darts.” Julian brought a hand that he only belatedly realized was trembling up to his brow. “I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t tell him what was really bothering me. I’m such a hypocrite. I’m sure he’d love Tolan. Who doesn’t love Tolan?”</p><p>“But who could understand <em>this</em>?” Garak offered, and he reached back and placed the pads of his fingers to Julian’s hip, carefully, so carefully it needled Julian’s guilt even more. Because Garak didn’t repeat the word <em>love</em>. He didn’t ask, who, other than you, dear Doctor, could <em>love</em> <em>me</em>. And Garak didn’t turn, didn’t look at him. The implication without the described context of <em>this</em> stung and muddled; it made Julian’s head hurt. It made it hard to breathe.</p><p>“I’m sorry. I’m a hypocrite <em> and </em> a coward, it seems, in this case.”</p><p>Garak tensed, and then he did turn in the bed, and Julian rolled onto his side to meet him, hold him. Garak’s eyes, as usual, betrayed little to nothing. The corners of his mouth were still. “Everyone is a hypocrite. And you’re not a coward. You are strong. You’re protective.” Seeming to realize that Julian was watching his mouth, Garak tilted a calculating smile at him and angled in for a soft kiss, which Julian returned hesitantly, eyes wide open, watching. “You’re very sweet. Protect yourself, and protect Tolan, always. But never think that you need to protect me, especially not from the likes of Chief O’Brien.” Garak tilted his head, seeming to consider a distracting counterpoint. “Although, you should know, I’m not offended by your reticence, with the Chief or anyone else.” Another kiss. “It is a delicious thing, to be your secret, and one that you guard so carefully.” And another. “You have so few secrets left.” Garak seemed almost giddy—as giddy as Garak could probably get—and certainly increasingly amorous. There was yet another kiss, deep, probing, and Julian relaxed under it despite himself, pressing, opening up. Garak pulled back with Julian’s gasp on his lips. “But if you—”</p><p>There was fussing then, over the comm. Julian and Garak breathed together, smiled together. Julian tilted his head forward in a gesture that was now becoming familiar to him, one of loyalty and care, feeling the insistent press of ridges on his naked forehead. “Duty calls,” Julian murmured. Oh, one more kiss, one more kiss! He pressed and Garak let him, and it was soft, warm, oh, so, so easy, to let it go on... </p><p>The fussing intensified and Julian withdrew. He got out of bed and tied a thin robe around himself, clicked an acknowledgement to the badge. “Hang on, you. Just a minute. I’ll be right there.” He shoved the combadge into a shallow pocket at his hip and leaned down to give a parting caress to Garak’s hair. “Go to sleep.” Garak closed his eyes obediently. He didn’t even shift.</p><p>Tolan was bleary-eyed and round-mouthed in the cot, holding himself upright by the edge, his little knees bending and straightening as he shifted his weight with agitated, dancing half-steps. <em> A nightmare</em>, Julian thought as he bent down. Not a common disturbance to Tolan’s sleep, but not unprecedented either. The baby reached and clutched at Julian’s chest and then neck, burying his little ridged face against Julian’s pulse point. “<em>Deeeearrr</em>,” Tolan whimpered thickly against his skin.</p><p>“Oh, dear,” Julian echoed, and he couldn’t quite contain a chuckle, pushing a series of silly, smacking smooches to the baby’s temple as he lifted him out and up into steady arms. That’s what Tolan had finally settled on, in lieu of <em> Dad</em>: Julian was <em> Dear</em>, as in, <em> My Dear Doctor</em>, what Tolan had deciphered as the special name Garak had for Julian, and the special name he would now claim in part for his own use. Garak was now <em> Yad’</em>—much closer to <em> Dad </em> from the sound of it, and Garak wouldn’t deny that that’s what it meant, but he also wouldn’t admit that he’d instructed Tolan to refer to him as such, as obvious as it was that he had. Julian hadn’t discouraged it. “Shall we struggle through another reading of <em> <span>ra-Celikk Wen</span> </em> or can I talk you into reviewing my latest draft on the half-life of metabolic stabilizers for ketracel replacement therapy?”</p><p>“<em>Ssss</em>…” Tolan sibilated. “Ik. Celikk.”</p><p>“Celikk it is, then,” Julian groaned. He stepped out into the darkened main living area, jostling Tolan heavily against one elbow as he reached to retrieve the padd from a shelf.</p><p>“Yad’?” Tolan suggested, bumping his forehead against Julian’s shoulder. It came to Julian on a tickle of unease that Tolan likely knew Garak was nearby, could probably <em> smell </em> Garak on the robe, on Julian’s skin. Or <em> taste </em> . Or <em> whatever </em> he was doing with his little mouth gaping, his little tongue darting around seeming to sip the air.</p><p>“Sleeping, darling. I know you’d much prefer to have him read to you, but you’ll just have to put up with my valiant attempt at <em> Kardasi </em> for now.” The baby huffed as Julian settled them both on the sofa, but then he gave his <em> chufa </em> a self-soothing rub and wriggled himself to tractable comfort on Julian’s lap. The light of the padd made them both squint for a moment. Julian cleared his throat, stifling a body-shaking yawn. “Hmm. Yes. So. What trouble has our friend the vole gotten himself into?”</p><p>A chime sounded. Tolan gave a curious croon and flexed his hand at the door, vole adventures apparently entirely forgotten. Another chime, and Julian set the padd aside, pulled himself to his feet. “Oh, baby, you’re too heavy for me,” he laughed ruefully as Tolan chirped and squirmed with interest in his arms. “Let’s see who it is.” </p><p>When Julian hit the manual release with his elbow and the door slid open, he and Tolan went silent and still as one. There was a beat, and then Tolan erupted in an explosion of growling and gnashing, shrinking back against Julian and striking out with his hands and teeth at the same time. </p><p>“Oh!” Julian stumbled backward, wrestling to soothe and reassure and <em> contain </em> his son. “It’s all right, all right. You’re fine…” </p><p>“Come on, now. I’m not as ugly as all <em> that </em>.”</p><p>“He thinks you’re <em> Falcon</em>—<em>Yeowch</em>!” Julian gritted when Tolan turned in his grasp and delivered a panicked nip to his chest. “He only knows you as Falcon!”</p><p>“Well, tell him I’m not!” Miles tripped forward and reached uselessly, obviously unsure of himself or how he could help. The door whispered shut behind him. Tolan howled at this approach, chittered threateningly not unlike a territorial squirrel. “Bloody <em> hell</em>, Julian!”</p><p>“Well, what the <em> hell </em> are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night. <em> Tolan</em>!” Julian wheezed. “It’s all right. It’s just Miles. Miles. See?” He bounced Tolan ineffectually, and Tolan remained a tight, seething ball of hate, rattling and clicking. “He’s a… friend.” Julian and Miles both winced. “He’s not going to hurt you.”</p><p>“<em>Dear</em>!” Tolan spat accusingly.</p><p>“I’d never let anyone hurt you. You know that.” Julian had finally regained control of his voice, and he pitched it caressingly low. He leaned back a little and nodded to catch Tolan’s gaze. After a moment, the baby relaxed into silence, but he seemed to have decided that he wouldn’t look at their visitor, instead burying his entire face against Julian’s chest. Julian chanced a glance back at his bedroom. Nothing. Dark. Still. Julian took a shaky breath.</p><p>“I’m sorry to drop by without any warning,” Miles said. He raised his hands appeasingly. “But it’s not <em> exactly </em> the middle of the night, either! It’s barely 2200.”</p><p>“<em>Well </em>?” Julian offered incredulously, pressing his cheek to the top of Tolan’s head, suddenly excruciatingly aware of his robe’s gaping disarray and designed shortness. </p><p>“Oh! Well…” Miles O’Brien fiddled, eyes darting up and down, down and up, between Julian and Tolan, Tolan and Julian, and once or twice down Julian’s bare legs to the floor. But then he shrugged, smirked, and went right into winning-over-the-tough-crowd mode: “I suppose 2200 <em> is </em> the middle of the night when they’re that age. Hell, half-past-eleven in the <em> morning </em> can feel like the middle of the—”</p><p>“Miles!” Julian hissed. “Stop faffing around and tell me: Why. Are. You. Here.”</p><p>“It’s Worf,” Miles admitted.</p><p>“I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong quarters.”</p><p>“He’s in a holding cell!” Miles threw up his hands, as if that explained everything. “Odo came and arrested him as soon as we docked.” Miles stepped past Julian and collapsed onto the sofa with a huff. “Lord <em> God </em> it’s hot in here. And dark!” He reached up to fan out the collar of his rumpled uniform. “Stuffy, too! Late dinner?” Julian opened and shut his mouth reflexively. Tolan whined. Miles took a few indelicate sniffs, jutting out his chin. “Smells like Thai food. Let me guess—cucumber salad, soup with a fish sauce base?”</p><p>Julian crumpled with a great, heaving sigh, eyes angled up in wretched embarrassment as he collapsed into the nearest chair. He only recovered just in time to readjust his robe for decency. He patted Tolan’s back nervously, his other hand trembling to his own forehead, for the second time this evening, over Miles-sodding-O’Brien. “Look,” he said, trying very hard to retain his last nerve, “I’m glad you’ve made it back safely. And I’m very concerned about Worf, really, would <em> love </em> to hear <em> all </em> about it, but this isn’t really a good—”</p><p>“I came to apologize!” Miles blurted, spreading his arms wide, leaning forward with a frantic, very un-Miles-ish glint of real anxiety in his eyes. “I’ve been such an ass. A real hypocrite. And I don’t know who’s worse off for having had me as any kind of a friend—you or Worf.”</p><p>Well, <em> that </em> certainly brought Julian up short. He jostled Tolan absently, cuddled him closer. The baby was thankfully well on his way to <em> truly </em> settling, and he felt limp and heavy in Julian’s arms. “What happened out there?” Julian asked quietly.</p><p>Miles fidgeted. “I can’t really go into specifics. There’s going to be a trial. The Klingons are sending a prosecutor. Ah, it’s a giant mess, it is.” He rubbed his face roughly, then lowered his hands, staring down at them. “What I can say is that Worf made a call, and people died. Lots of people died. It wasn’t a call I would’ve made, either. Ah, <em> fuck</em>.” He peeked up, squinted. “Sorry,” he mumbled, nodding at Tolan. Julian waved him off and waited. “It’s just… ah, this is going to sound horrible. But… Even with Worf in a cell, and even with all those people dead, I know it was the right thing, not to challenge him in the moment. Chain of command, you know…”</p><p>“Hm,” Julian supplied, still waiting.</p><p>“And even though I <em> still </em> believe that we would have been <em> dead</em>, you and me <em> both</em>, at the hands of those damned Jem’Hadar had we not left <em> exactly </em> when we did, I <em> don’t </em> feel right about how things happened on Bopak III. Questioning orders, questioning <em> your </em> orders.”</p><p>“A little more than <em> questioning</em>,” Julian said, but he couldn’t summon any rancor. “Listen… the situations aren’t as similar as you’re making them out to be. Lurking variables in their hundreds between them. Besides, I thought I’d already made it clear that I’d quite gotten over that part of everything.”</p><p>“Would it help if I told you that I will strive to say fewer ugly things?” Miles tilted his head and then gave it a fond little shake, as if remembering something. Julian was stunned to his core. Leave it to someone as predictable in his oblivious obstinacy as Miles O’Brien to surprise him with this most unexpected concession. <em> Lurking variables, indeed</em>.</p><p>“Er,” Julian stammered. He cleared his throat, tried for a smile, and it came, after a moment’s effort. “It’s definitely a start.”</p><p>“Ah!” Miles exclaimed, all awkward relief. The silence that stretched out couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds, but it felt eternal. Julian looked at Miles, and Miles looked at Julian. Their respective sets of eyebrows climbed up millimeter by millimeter until both men broke into embarrassed soft laughter at the same time. Tolan peeped a drowsy mimicry, curling impossibly closer against Julian’s chest. “He’s sleeping?”</p><p>“Hmm, almost,” Julian hummed. “Thank god.”</p><p>“Do you think I could…” Miles nudged forward, put his hands out hesitatingly.</p><p>“We could <em> try</em>, I suppose.” Julian stood slowly, carefully. He stepped over to the sofa and sat down next to Miles. Tolan opened his eyes fractionally. He didn’t hiss or rattle, but he scrunched his little face and pushed it grudgingly against Julian again, which made Julian laugh again. “Actually… I’m afraid he might bite you.”</p><p>“Ah, most of ‘em aren’t very trusting of strangers.” Miles shook his head when Julian looked at him sharply. “<em> Kids</em>, Julian. Babies. Come on, let me see if I can’t win him over. I’m willing to take the risk. Fair’s fair if he bites.”</p><p>Julian swallowed down his retort. With all this talk of death and looming consequences, it struck him as decidedly bad form to mention the likely imminence of Miles’ funeral. Tolan rallied like a swarm of disturbed bees when Julian tried to lift him off his lap. “I don’t think it’s going to work,” he said. Miles looked, Julian had to admit, endearingly put out. “He’s cranky. I should try to put him back down.”</p><p>“Well, give him time.” Miles slapped his knees and stood with a groan. “I should be going, anyway. Debriefing starts in two hours and I feel like I need to sleep for about five days.”</p><p>Julian carried Tolan to the door, walking Miles to it with a few murmured farewells. And then his expectations were blessedly exceeded when Tolan took to his cot with only the briefest nominal protest, losing his battle with sleep in seconds. Julian had settled back on the chair in the main living area, with a steaming, replicated mug in one hand and a padd in the other, knowing that he would need more than a few seconds himself to relax out of the excitement of the hour, when the movement of a shadow caught his eye. He flicked his gaze up to the doorway of the bedroom. Garak stood in it, leaned against one side of it, stark naked. His arms were crossed over his chest, his expression inscrutable but a little threatening for all that.</p><p>“Fish sauce,” he pronounced monotonously with a slow blink.</p><p>Julian dribbled tea on a snort. “Well, don’t look at <em> me</em>!”</p><p> </p><h3>[Stardate 49668.1, Quark’s, Deep Space 9, Bajoran System]</h3><p>Julian clapped Worf’s shoulder with what he thought was exemplary courage. “Congratulations!” he crowed, raising the almost empty glass in his other hand. “You’re a free man!”</p><p>Worf graced him with a very serious, nonplussed frown. “I am a <em> fortunate </em> man, Doctor.”</p><p>“Most assuredly!” Julian agreed.</p><p>“Thank you for the party.” Worf didn’t sound like he was overly grateful. And he certainly didn’t look it.</p><p>“Oh, it was Miles’ idea, for the most part. Miles!” Julian called across the room. He didn’t wait for a response, and pushed his bravery to new levels by giving Worf a playful little shove. “You should cement your victory over the odds by taking him at darts. I believe he’s already absolutely pissed.”</p><p>“There would be no—”</p><p>“No <em> honor </em> in it, yes I know.” Julian beamed at him. “But plenty of fun! Go on. Beat him once, at least. For me!”</p><p>Worf snorted his distaste but stalked off, reluctantly making his way, nonetheless straight and true, towards Miles and the dartboard.</p><p>“<em>There </em> you are.”</p><p>Julian started, hadn’t been aware that Jadzia had sidled up next to him at the bar. “Oh no. You’re looking for trouble.”</p><p>“I’ve been looking for <em> you</em>. And a drink.”</p><p>“Of course.” Julian caught Rom’s eye and held up two fingers, and then he drained the dregs of his beer in a relishing gulp.</p><p>“Who is it?” Well, well, well. She was cutting right to the chase. Couldn’t even wait for her drink to start in on him.</p><p>“Oh!” Julian sighed gustily. He planted an elbow on the bar, swiveled on his stool, smirked and winked at Jadzia. “Who is what?”</p><p>“Don’t you <em> dare</em>,” Jadzia admonished him, laughing. “Thanks, Rom.” She accepted her drink with a warm smile, but then turned a withering look to Julian, lowering her voice to a grumble. “Just <em> tell </em> me. I know the Chief made an unexpected visit to your quarters a few nights ago, and I know that he thinks there was someone else there with you. Said you kept looking at your bedroom like you were worried it might explode.”</p><p>“Really?” Julian pursed his lips, then angled a wide-eyed look of angelic curiosity as he slurped the froth from his fresh beer.</p><p>“It’s not another one of your nurses, is it? Shallow pool, Julian. Have you managed to rekindle things with Thom?”</p><p>Julian belched lightly.</p><p>“Hmm, not Thom, then. A dabo girl, maybe? I have it on excellent authority that Leeta thinks you’re pretty cute.” Jadzia scrunched her nose at him.</p><p>Julian gave a noncommittal grunt. He found he’d suddenly lost his enthusiasm for the beer, for the party, for the entire ordeal. He wasn’t sour, but he was ready to go. He knew he would make his way back to his quarters soon. Back to Tolan. Back to...</p><p>“Damn.” Jadzia frowned deeply. “You’re really not going to say? That’s… unexpected.”</p><p>“Maybe I’m learning from past mistakes.”</p><p>“Or maybe it’s <em> serious</em>!” Jadzia squealed, as if hit by a sudden realization that had well and truly made her day. Julian spluttered, but only slightly. He recovered quickly and took another deep drink. “Oh <em> my</em>! I think it is!”</p><p>“<em>What </em> it is, <em> if </em> it is, and I’m not <em> saying </em> it is…” he trailed off, bit his lip for a moment. Jadzia’s eyes were wild with the need to know. “... is certainly my business, and not yours, and that’s all there is to it.”</p><p>“I’m going to find out.” Jadzia raised her glass, clinked it good-humoredly to Julian’s, and winked back at him. “But for now, congratulations to you, on <em> it</em>, whoever, however, <em> whatever </em> the <em> it </em> may be.” She elbowed him before stepping away. “You look happy. And I’m glad.”</p><p>It was as if his ears had spontaneously reconfigured themselves as twin nacelles; they burned so hot as Julian smiled, helplessly. He reached out for Jadzia’s shoulder as she turned. “Wait. Before you go, I couldn’t bother you for some advice, could I?” Jadzia leaned in, all ears. “I’m planning another party. Tolan’s turning one.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Kardasi purloined and syntactically butchered from Vyc &amp; Tinsnip's English-Kardasi dictionary.</p><p>Ah yes, another chapter burped up for this monstrosity. It's been <strike>84 years</strike> 50-some-odd-K words. You'd think I'd tire of padding all of this plot I've only just begun with so much silly junk, but... SIGH. I've removed the projected end chapter count, cuz it doesn't look like I'm going to wrap things up in the next three. BOO.</p><p>As always I invite you to tell me all about myself in the comments.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TEN MILLION SLOPPY WINE KISSES TO <a href="https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/ectogeo/pseuds/plain_and_simple_tailor">ectogeo</a> for the THOROUGH beta-reading this mess will continue to demand. Possibly forever.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>